Part 11 (1/2)

RETURN

Ah, it was here--September And silence filled the air-- I came last year to remember, And muse, hid away from care.

It was here I came--the thistle Was trusting her seed to the wind; The quail in the croft gave whistle As now--and the fields lay thinned.

I know how the hay was steeping, Brown mows under mellow haze; How a frail cloud-flock was creeping As now over lone sky-ways.

Just there where the catbird's calling Her mock-hurt note by the shed, The use-worn wain was stalling In the weedy brook's dry bed.

And the cricket, lone little chimer Of day-long dreams in the vines, Chirred on like a doting rhymer O'er-vain of his firstling lines.

He's near me now by the aster, Beneath whose shadowy spray A sultry bee seeps faster As the sun slips down the day.

And there are the tall primroses Like maidens waiting to dance.

They stood in the same shy poses Last year, as if to entrance The stately mulleins to waken From death and lead them around: And still they will stand untaken, Till drops their gold to the ground.

Yes, it was here--September And silence round me yearned.

Again I've come to remember, Again for musing returned To the searing fields' a.s.suaging, And the falling leaves' sad balm: Away from the world's keen waging-- To harvest and hills and calm.

LISETTE

Oh ... there was love in her heart--no doubt of it-- Under the anger.

But see what came out of it!

Not a knave, he!--A smitten rhyme-smatterer, Cloaking in languor And heartache to flatter her.

And just as a woman will--even the best of them-- She yielded--brittle.

G.o.d spare me the rest of them!

For! though but kisses--she swore!--he had of her, Was it so little?

She thought 'twas not bad of her,

Said I would lavish a burning hour-full On any grisette.

And silenced me, powerful!

But she was mine, and blood is inflammable-- For a Lisette!

My rage was undammable....

Could a stiletto's one p.r.i.c.k be prettier?

Look at the gaping.