The Five Books of Youth Part 6

Bid him begone, or let me reach And tear away his veil. But he is gone.

Who was he? surely no comrade of the dawn, No lover from an earthly town, Was he then Love? or Death? . . . but he is gone.

Come, I will take your hand,--this little glade Of stunted trees,--do you remember that?

You dropped the Persian vase here on this stone, And the white grape was spilled; And then you cried, half angry, half afraid; Yonder we sat And carefully took the pieces one by one, And tried to make them fit.

I brought another vessel filled With a deeper wine, and there on that dark bank, When the first star stepped from immensity, We lay and drank....

Do you remember it?

White flame you burned against the star grey gra.s.s.

Drink deep and pa.s.s The insufficient cup to me.

Paris, 1919

IV

You seek to hurt me, foolish child, and why?

How cunningly you try The keen edge of your words against me, yea, The death you would not dare inflict on me, Yet would you welcome if it tore the day In which I pleasure from my sight.

You would be happy if that sombre night Ravished me into darkness where there are No flowers and no colours and no light, Nor any joy, nor you, O morning star.

What have I done to hurt you? You have given What I have given, and both of us have taken Bravely and beautifully without regret.

When have I sinned against you? or forsaken Our secret vow? Think you that I forget One syllable of all your loveliness?

What is this crime that shall not be forgiven?

Spring pa.s.ses, the pale buds upon the pond Shrink under water from my lonely oars, The fern is squandering its final frond, And gypsy smoke drifts grey from distant sh.o.r.es.

O soon enough the end of love and song, And soon enough the ultimate farewell; Blazon our lives with one last miracle,-- We have not long.

Genoa, 1918

V

By these shall you remember The syllables of me; The gra.s.s in cushioned clumps around The root of cedar tree.

The blue and green design Of sky and budding leaves, The joyous song that in the sun A golden ladder weaves.

When soil is wet and warm And smells of the new rain, When frogs accost the evening With their recurrent strain,

Then d.a.m.n me if you dare.

I know how you will call, But this time I will laugh and run, Nor look at you at all.

Or, if you will, go walking With immortality, But never shall you once forget The syllables of me.

Paris, 1919

VI

Two black deer uprise In ghostly silhouette Against the frozen skies, Against the snowy meadow; The moonlight weaves a net Of silver and of shadow.

The sky is cold above me, The icy road below Leads me from you who love me, To unknown destinies.

Was that your whistle?--No, The wind among the trees.

Sheffield, 1917

VII

When in the ultimate embrace Our blown dust mingles in the wind, And others wander in the place Where we made merry; When in the dance of spring we spend Our ashen powers with the gale, What will these tears and joys avail, The winged kiss, the laughing face, Where we make merry?

Save that with everlasting grace Thy soul shall linger in this place, And haunt with music, or else be A lyric in the memory.

Boston, 1915

VIII

Tonight it seems to be the same As when we two would sit With struggling breath beside the river.

How slowly the moon came Above the hill; how wet With shaking silver she arose Above the hill.

Now in the sultry garden close I hear the katydid Strumming his foolish mandolin.

The wind is lying still, And suddenly amid The trembling boughs the moon expands into a scarlet flame.

What charm can bid the mind forget, And sleep in peace forever, Beyond the ghosts of ancient sin, Lost laughter, barren tears.

And you, my dear, have slept four thousand years, Beneath the Pyramid.

Brussels, 1918

IX

If you should come tonight And say, "I could not go, and leave You here alone in pain,"

How should I take delight In that or dare believe, Lest I deceive myself with dreams again?...

If you should come tonight.

Cambridge, 1916

X

You are very far to-night; So far that my beseeching hands Clasp on the bright Metallic lock of some forbidden portal, Where you alone may enter in; And my long gaze Blurs in a memory of other lands, And other times.

You stand immortal.

You have fought clear beyond these nights and days Whose rusty chimes Shake the frail, faded tapestries of sin.

You stand immortal, Intense with peace, immaculate as stone, Raising white arms of praise, Far from this night, triumphantly alone.

Cambridge, 1917

XI

O lonely star moving in still abodes Where fear and strife lie indolently furled, You cannot hear the rushing autumn hurled Against these wanderers bent with futile loads.