Part 17 (1/2)

STAMFORD, _May_, 1913.

CHANGE

Behold, the tides are awake!

Under the high moon's light, Broad bands of silver, they glitter and quake, Moving out into the night.

Off from the sh.o.r.e they slide, Out, out into the blue: And I am turned to a s.h.i.+mmering tide Flooding on outward to you!

HENGISTBURY HEAD, _Spring_, 1915.

TRANSFIGURATION

Two feet apart, straight-limbed on the heathered hill We lie, under the wavering haze Of the sun, even as two logs that lie still In the heart of a blaze.

Side by side we lie through the long Late noon together; On us the light wind stoops his strong, Hot, sweet scents of heather.

No word breaks the air that smothers, Lest we miss The dull heart-beat of the earth below each other's, And the soft kiss Of breathless heather upon heather, while the sun Beats on us encouraging the swiftening blood, Till up the limbs and through the ears it run, A thin, red singing flood.

Love hath put in me might, That was so weak; I am strong with light, My senses seek Something indefinable, afar; They go wandering, and return....

With the light drunk off a star They calmly burn, Even as the immense sun burns on us Till evening turns watery those beams of his; And, rising from that joyance onerous, I stoop a kiss Lighter than the b.a.l.l.s of fluff The wind sways across the heath, Though each invisible, hot puff Scarce rocks a spray beneath.

I sit, and it is so still, Now wind and sun have gone home, I can almost hear distil The dew in the gloam.

And from the clear and cool Of the twilit air, That is still as a pool Iced over and bare, I catch at length The thought I have been searching for: Did I absorb the sun's or just your strength, Or Something More?

_Summer_, 1914.

PLAINT OF PIERROT ILL-USED

I am Pierrot, and was born On some February morn When through glistering rain shone down The full moon on Paris town.

(Ah the moons.h.i.+ne in my head!)

For, upon the fatal minute When the moon's heart changes in it And the tides their flow reverse, I, for better or for worse, Born was. (Better been born dead Than with moonwork in my head!)

Clown stood foster, but another Got me of Clown's wife my mother, And as suited my poor station, Thieving was made my profession: Doorsteps often were my bed (Frosty moons.h.i.+ne in my head).

Yet while Pierrot was a thief-- Miracle beyond belief, Chance fantastic as divine!-- I fell in with Columbine: Dark eyes, lips of mournful red (Dark-bright moons.h.i.+ne in my head).

At the corner of the street She and I by night would meet; Met, but never told our love, While th' ironic moon above In her reverie smiled, and shed Tranquil radiance round each head.

Till my father by a breath Stifled at the hands of Death, ”--Since no other children were-- a.s.signed me as only heir.”

(Silver sequins heaped and spread: Billowing silver in my head.)

So, in search of fitting knowledge, Poor Pierrot was sent to college, Where Pantaloon and Pantaloon In answerless riddles o' the moon Crammed more moons.h.i.+ne in his head.

Home, then, Pierrot by-and-by Hurried spent, resolved to sigh Headache, heartache, and the rest, Out on Columbine's white breast, White as the moon's cloudy bed (Hush the moons.h.i.+ne in my head).

But, while gone, had entered in Spangled, smiling Harlequin; Laughter cynic and unholy: ”Pah! Pierrot's poor melancholy!”