Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Part 22

That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I could not cry.

Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good G.o.d, for my misery! I cannot face the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did.

Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me!

I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would call me "wh.o.r.e", and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no wh.o.r.e, no bad woman, he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him always in my heart, what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin, Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman must give all. There is some call to give and hold back nothing.

I swear I obeyed G.o.d then, and this child who lives in me is the sign.

What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall have.

Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby!

He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He shall go to school in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve, so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois, out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things, I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with my boy, I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord G.o.d, be merciful, take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came.

No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months.

To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home and tell my mother.

She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father, and we were born for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy Mother, take my baby away!

Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it!

And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl.

Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body, and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above, and the pine-needles all s.h.i.+ny in the light of it. He is gone, my man, I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another.

I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms!

So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With nothing to warm my heart where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I shall not be quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They will respect me.

What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. G.o.d had my man give me my baby, when He knew that He was going to take him away. His lips will comfort me, his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making, and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it that sings?

I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They seem just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother.

He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him, but give me strength to bring him up to be a man.

Late September

Tang of fruitage in the air; Red boughs bursting everywhere; s.h.i.+mmering of seeded gra.s.s; Hooded gentians all a'ma.s.s.

Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind Tearing off the husky rind, Blowing feathered seeds to fall By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.

Beech trees in a golden haze; Hardy sumachs all ablaze, Glowing through the silver birches.

How that pine tree shouts and lurches!

From the sunny door-jamb high, Swings the sh.e.l.l of a b.u.t.terfly.

Sc.r.a.pe of insect violins Through the stubble shrilly dins.

Every blade's a minaret Where a small muezzin's set, Loudly calling us to pray At the miracle of day.

Then the purple-lidded night Westering comes, her footsteps light Guided by the radiant boon Of a sickle-shaped new moon.

The Pike

In the brown water, Thick and silver-sheened in the suns.h.i.+ne, Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds, A pike dozed.

Lost among the shadows of stems He lay unnoticed.

Suddenly he flicked his tail, And a green-and-copper brightness Ran under the water.

Out from under the reeds Came the olive-green light, And orange flashed up Through the sun-thickened water.

So the fish pa.s.sed across the pool, Green and copper, A darkness and a gleam, And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank Received it.

The Blue Scarf

Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, s.h.i.+mmered over with silver, brocaded In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes, it lies there, Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing.

Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me!

A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down on my face, And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim in cool-tinted heavens.

Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement.

Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles.

A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-bellied Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin, Sunk in the black and white marble. The west wind has lifted a scarf On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour.

She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath her slight stirring.

Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to a handful of cinders, And open my eyes to the scarf, s.h.i.+ning blue in the afternoon suns.h.i.+ne.

How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!

White and Green

Hey! My daffodil-crowned, Slim and without sandals!

As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness So my eyeb.a.l.l.s are startled with you, Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees, Light runner through ta.s.selled orchards.

You are an almond flower unsheathed Leaping and flickering between the budded branches.

Aubade