Part 6 (1/2)

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 cus.h.i.+oned 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.