Volume Ii Part 151 (1/2)

My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders.

Just a plate of current fas.h.i.+on, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.

Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whale-bone and brocade.

And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime-tree. For my pa.s.sion Wars against the stiff brocade.

The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please.

And I weep; For the lime-tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plas.h.i.+ng of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths.

The dripping never stops.

Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding.

But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.

What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!

I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.

All the pink and silver crumpled upon the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter.

I should see the sun flas.h.i.+ng from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes.

I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the b.u.t.tons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid.

With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon-- I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid.

It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.

”Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday se'nnight.”

As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes.

”Any answer, Madam?” said my footman.

”No,” I told him.

”See that the messenger takes some refreshment.

No, no answer.”

And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade.

The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one.

I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown.

Up and down I walked, Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.

In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat.

He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing.

And I answered, ”It shall be as you have said.”