Georgian Poetry 1913-15 Part 27

Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears, Or twists her tail and begins to stir, Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes One breathing, trembling purr.

The children eat and wriggle and laugh, The two old ladies stroke their silk: But the cat is grown small and thin with desire, Transformed to a creeping l.u.s.t for milk.

The white saucer like some full moon descends At last from the clouds of the table above; She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows, Transfigured with love.

She nestles over the shining rim, Buries her chin in the creamy sea; Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw Is doubled under each bending knee.

A long, dim ecstasy holds her life; Her world is an infinite shapeless white, Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop, Then she sinks back into the night,

Draws and dips her body to heap Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair, Lies defeated and buried deep Three or four hours unconscious there.

OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?

Green gla.s.s, goblin. Why do you stare at them?

Give them me.

No.

Give them me. Give them me.

No.

Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them.

Goblin, why do you love them so?

They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green gla.s.s beads on a silver ring.

Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

Give me your beads, I want them.

No.

I will howl in a deep lagoon For your green gla.s.s beads, I love them so.

Give them me. Give them.

No.

CHILDREN OF LOVE

The holy boy Went from his mother out in the cool of the day Over the sun-parched fields And in among the olives shining green and shining grey.

There was no sound, No smallest voice of any shivering stream.

Poor sinless little boy, He desired to play and to sing; he could only sigh and dream.

Suddenly came Running along to him naked, with curly hair, That rogue of the lovely world, That other beautiful child whom the virgin Venus bare.

The holy boy Gazed with those sad blue eyes that all men know.

Impudent Cupid stood Panting, holding an arrow and pointing his bow.

(Will you not play?

Jesus, run to him, run to him, swift for our joy.

Is he not holy, like you?

Are you afraid of his arrows, O beautiful dreaming boy?)

And now they stand Watching one another with timid gaze; Youth has met youth in the wood, But holiness will not change its melancholy ways.

Cupid at last Draws his bow and softly lets fly a dart.

Smile for a moment, sad world!-- It has grazed the white skin and drawn blood from the sorrowful heart.

Now, for delight, Cupid tosses his locks and goes wantonly near; But the child that was born to the cross Has let fall on his cheek, for the sadness of life, a compa.s.sionate tear.

Marvellous dream!

Cupid has offered his arrows for Jesus to try; He has offered his bow for the game.

But Jesus went weeping away, and left him there wondering why.

JAMES STEPHENS

THE RIVALS

I heard a bird at dawn Singing sweetly on a tree, That the dew was on the lawn, And the wind was on the lea; But I didn't listen to him, For he didn't sing to me.

I didn't listen to him, For he didn't sing to me That the dew was on the lawn And the wind was on the lea; I was singing at the time Just as prettily as he.

I was singing all the time, Just as prettily as he, About the dew upon the lawn And the wind upon the lea; So I didn't listen to him And he sang upon a tree.