Part 1 (1/2)

Poems.

by Muriel Stuart.

THE SEED SHOP.

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie, Faded as crumbled stone or s.h.i.+fting sand, Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry-- Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

Dead that shall quicken at the call of Spring, Sleepers to stir beneath June's magic kiss, Though birds pa.s.s over, unremembering, And no bee seek here roses that were his.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust That will drink deeply of a century's streams, These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death, Sealed in their sh.e.l.ls a million roses leap; Here I can blow a garden with my breath, And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

MAN AND HIS MAKERS.

1.

I am one of the wind's stories, I am a fancy of the rain,-- A memory of the high noon's glories, The hint the sunset had of pain.

2.

They dreamed me as they dreamed all other; Hawthorn and I, I and the gra.s.s, With sister shade and phantom brother Across their slumber glide and pa.s.s.

3.

Twilight is in my blood, my being Mingles with trees and ferns and stones; Thunder and stars my lips are freeing, And there is sea-rack in my bones.

4.

Those that have dreamed me shall out-wake me, But I go hence with flowers and weeds; I am no more to those who make me Than other drifting fruit and seeds.

5.

And though I love them--mourn to leave them-- Sea, earth and sunset, stars and streams, My tears, my pa.s.sing do not grieve them...

Other dreams have they, other dreams.

THE NEW ASPASIA.

If I have given myself to you and you, And if these pale hands are not virginal, Nor these bright lips beneath your own lips true, What matters it? I do not stand nor fall By your old foolish judgments of desire: If this were Helen's way it is not mine; I bring you beauty, but no Troys to fire: The cup I hold brims not with Borgia's wine.

You, so soon snared of sudden brows and b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Lightly you think upon these lips, this hair.

My thoughts are kinder: you are pity's guests: Compa.s.sion's bed you share.

It was not l.u.s.t delivered me to you; I gave my wondering mouth for pity's sake, For your strange, sighing lips I did but break Many times this bread, and poured this wine anew.

My body's woven sweetness and kindling hair Were given for heal of hurts unknown of me, For something I could slake but could not share.

Sudden and rough and cruel I let you be, I gave my body for what the world calls sin, Even as for your souls the Nazarene Gave once. Long years in pity I and He Have served you--Jesus and the Magdalen.

As on the river in the fading light A rust-red sail across the evening creeps, Torching the gloom, and slowly sinks from sight, The blood may rise to some old face at night, Remembering old sins before it sleeps.

So might you hence recall me, were I true To your sad violence. Were I not free So me you might remember now; but you Were no more loved by me Than clouds at sunset, or the wild bird going About his pleasure on the apple tree, Or wide-blown roses swelling to the bee; No sweeter than flowers suddenly found growing In frost-bound dells, or, on the bare, high hills, The gold, unlaced, dew-drunken daffodils Shouting the dawn, or the brown river flowing Down quietly to the sea; Or day in twilight's hair bound safe and dim, Stirless in lavender, or the wind blowing, Tumbling the poppy's turban after him.