A Woman of Thirty Part 5

Portrait of a Gentleman

Tower of stone Rugged and lonely, My thoughts like ivy Embrace my memory of you, Climbing riotously, wantonly, Till the harsh walls Are clothed in tender green.

Tower of stone, Stark walls and a narrow door Which speak: "You who are not for me Are against me,-- If you are mine, Enter!"

But who would be prisoned In unknown darkness?

Tower of stone Rugged and lonely, I dared not enter and I would not go Till clasping you My arms were bruised and torn.

From the Madison Street Police Station

I, John Shepherd, vagrant, Pet.i.tion the park commissioners For wider benches.

My soul has long been reconciled To the p.r.i.c.k of gunny-sack, (O well-remembered woollen fleeces!) And rustling vests of newspaper, And the chill of rubbers on unshod feet, But to the wasteful burning of dry leaves, G.o.d's shepherd's mattress, Never!

Descendant of ancient ones Who tended flocks and watched the midnight sky, My forebears saw the Eastern star appear Over Judean hills.

Where do your flocks graze, gentlemen?

Are there no sheep or shepherds any more?

All day long I sought the flocks And came by night to a wide, gra.s.sy place, Where I could sit and watch the stars wheel by-- And in the morning some one brought me here.

La Felice

La Felice, by the forest pond looks through leaves to the Western screen of Chinese gold that lies beyond black trees and boughs of golden-green.

The little body of La Felice weary of everything on earth has pa.s.sed from love to love, till peace and beauty alone have any worth.

So still and deep the water lies, so fiery-cool, so yellow-clear; Here beauty sleeps! La Felice cries, I will give myself to beauty here!"

The mud is smooth and deep, the weeds beneath her feet are soft and cool, ripples widen and glistening beads of bubble rise on the forest pool.

The water reaches to her knee, now to her thigh, now to her breast, till like a child all peacefully does La Felice lie down to rest.

She struggles like a fearful bride with ecstasy--then La Felice turns quietly upon her side and over the sunset pool is peace.

The Journey

Three women walked through the snow Beneath an empty sky, And one was blind, and one was old, And one was I.

Bravely the Blind One led, I questioned from behind "Tell me, where do we go?" She said "Have courage... I am blind!"

We came at last to a cliff, The Blind One plunged, and was gone-- I looked behind me, stark and stiff The Old One stood in the dawn.

The deep creva.s.se was black Beneath the dawning day, I could not turn and travel back, The Old One barred the way.

I could not turn aside, (To lead, one dare not see) I think that day I must have died Such silence is in me.

The Last Illusion

Along the twilight road I met three women, And they were neither old nor very young; In her hands each bore what she most cherished, For they were neither rich, nor very poor.

In the hands of the first woman I saw white ashes in an urn, In the hands of the next woman I saw a tarnished mirror gleam, In the hands of the last woman I saw a heavy, jagged stone--

Along the twilight road I met three women, And they were neither fools nor very wise, For each was troubled lest another covet Her precious burden--so they walked alone.

The Desert

Through dusty years, and drearily, Two lovers rode across a desert hill While patient love followed them wearily Through the long, sultry day...

But when night came, the desert had its way, Turning, they found love cold and still.

It lay so pitiful a thing, Threadbare, and soiled, and worn-- "Why have we kept such starveling love?" she cried, "Was it worth treasuring?"

And he replied: "Bury it then! I shall not mourn!"

The wind came from the West, It seemed to blow Across a million graves to the sordid bier Where lay their love. She said: "We will bury it here!"

They laid it low, They rode on, dispossessed.

And all around Rose silent hills against the darkening sky, Wave upon motionless wave.

The night wind made a mournful sound.

The woman turned: "It is lonely here!

I am afraid!" she said.

He made reply: "What is there left to lose or save?

What is there left to fear?

Our hearts are empty. Have we not buried our dead?"

She said, "I fear the empty dark, be kind!"

He said, "I am still here, be comforted!"

Then from its shallow grave Their love rose up and followed close behind.

The Picnic

Here they come, in pairs, carrying baskets, Pale clerks with brilliant neckties, and cheap serge suits, Steering girls by the arm, clerks, too, Pretty and slim and smart, Even to yellow kid boots, laced up behind.

They take the electric cars far into the country, They descend, gaily chattering, at the Amus.e.m.e.nt Park.

Under the trees they eat the lunch they have carried-- Salad, sausages, sandwiches, candy, warm beer.

They ride in the roller-coaster, two in a seat, (Glorious danger! Warm, delicious proximity!) The unaccustomed beer floods their veins like heady wine, And smothered youth awakens with shrill screams of joy.

The sun sets, and evening is drowned in electric lights; Arm-in-arm, they wander under the trees Everywhere meeting others, wandering arm-in-arm In the same wistful wonder, seeking they know not what.

Two leave the park and the crowds--The stars s.h.i.+ne out, A river runs at their feet, behind them, a leafy copse, Away on the other sh.o.r.e, the fields of grain Lie sleeping peacefully in the starlight.

Tonight the world is theirs, a legacy From those who lived familiar friends with river, field and forest-- Their forebears.

Through the night, the same earth-magic moves them Which swayed those ancient ones, long-dead-- And these, too, lean and drink, Drink deeply from the river, the flowing river of life.

Slowly they return to the crowds and the brilliant lights, Dazzled, they look aside, silently climb on the cars.

They cling to the swaying straps, weary, inert, confused.

The lurching ear makes halt--they are thrown in each others' arms-- Alien and unmoved, they sway apart again-- The car moves through the fields and suburbs back to the town.

They leave the car in pairs, the picnic basket's Rattling dismally, plate and spoon and jar.