Part 19 (1/2)

Across my wall, from the far-off moon, A rain of fire is thrown . . .

There are houses hanging above the stars, And stars hung under a sea: And a wind from the long blue vault of time Waves my curtains for me . . .

I wait in the dark once more, Swung between s.p.a.ce and s.p.a.ce: Before my mirror I lift my hands And face my remembered face.

Is it I who stand in a question here, Asking to know my name? . . .

It is I, yet I know not whither I go, Nor why, nor whence I came.

It is I, who awoke at dawn And arose and descended the stair, Conceiving a G.o.d in the eye of the sun, -- In a woman's hands and hair.

It is I whose flesh is grey with the stones I builded into a wall: With a mournful melody in my brain Of a tune I cannot recall . . .

There are roses to kiss: and mouths to kiss; And the sharp-pained shadow of death.

I remember a rain-drop on my cheek, -- A wind like a fragrant breath . . .

And the star I laugh on tilts through heaven; And the heavens are dark and steep . . .

I will forget these things once more In the silence of sleep.

A Thrush in the Moonlight. [Witter Bynner]

In came the moon and covered me with wonder, Touched me and was near me and made me very still.

In came a rush of song, like rain after thunder, Pouring importunate on my window-sill.

I lowered my head, I hid it, I would not see nor hear, The birdsong had stricken me, had brought the moon too near.

But when I dared to lift my head, night began to fill With singing in the darkness. And then the thrush grew still.

And the moon came in, and silence, on my window-sill.

Orchard. [H. D.]

I saw the first pear As it fell -- The honey-seeking, golden-banded, The yellow swarm Was not more fleet than I, (Spare us from loveliness) And I fell prostrate Crying: You have flayed us With your blossoms, Spare us the beauty Of fruit-trees.

The honey-seeking Paused not, The air thundered their song, And I alone was prostrate.

O rough-hewn G.o.d of the orchard, I bring you an offering -- Do you, alone unbeautiful, Son of the G.o.d, Spare us from loveliness:

These fallen hazel-nuts, Stripped late of their green sheaths, Grapes, red-purple, Their berries Dripping with wine, Pomegranates already broken, And shrunken figs And quinces untouched, I bring you as offering.

Heat. [H. D.]

O wind, rend open the heat, Cut apart the heat, Rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop Through this thick air -- Fruit cannot fall into heat That presses up and blunts The points of pears And rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat -- Plough through it, Turning it on either side Of your path.