A Woman of Thirty | Page 4

her head--
Doctor and Deacon:?We'll carry her?And bury her?If she's dead!
House:?They roll her up?In her old, red quilt,?They carry her down?At a horizontal tilt,?She doesn't say "Yes"?And she doesn't say "No,"?She doesn't say, "Gentlemen,?Where do we go?"
Doctor:?Out in the lot?Where ash-cans die,?There, old woman,?There shall you lie!
Deacon:?Let's hurry away?And never look behind?To see if her eyes?Are dead and blind,?To see if the quilt?Lies over her face--?Perhaps she'll groan?Or move in her place!
House:?The room is empty?Where the old woman lay,?And I no longer?Smell like a tomb--
Landlady:?Doctor, deacon,?Can you say?Who'll pay rent?For the old woman's room?

House:?The room is empty?Down the hall,?There are mice in the closet,?Ghosts in the wall--?A pretty little lady?Comes to see--
Woman:?Oh, what a dark room,?Not for me!
Landlady:?The room is large?And the rent is low,?There's a deacon above?And a doctor below--
Deacon:?When the little mice squeak?I shall pray--
Doctor:?I'll psycho-analyse?The ghosts away--
Landlady:?The bed is large?And the mattress deep,?Wrapped in a feather-bed?You shall sleep--
Woman:?But here's the door?Without a key!?An unlocked room?Won't do for me!
Doctor:?Here's a bolt--
Deacon:?And here's a bar--
Landlady:?You'll sleep soundly?Where you are!
Woman:?Good night, gentlemen,?It's growing late,?Good night, landlady,?Pray don't wait!?I'm going to bed,?I'll bolt the door?And sleep more soundly?Than ever before!
Deacon:?Good night, madam,?I'll steal away--
Doctor:?Glad a pretty lady?Has come to stay!
House:?She lights a candle--?What do I see!?That cloak looks like?A quilt to me!?She climbs into bed?Where long she's lain,?She's come back home,?She won't leave again.?She's found once more?Her rightful place,?Same old lady?With a pretty new face.?Let the deacon pray?And the doctor talk,?The mice will squeak?And the ghosts will walk.?There's a crafty smile?On the landlady's face,?The old woman's gone,?But she's filled her place!
Landlady:?It's nothing to me?If the old woman's dead,?There's somebody sleeping?In every bed!
II. Love Poems in Summer
Singalese Love Songs
I
Your eyes are beautiful beggars,?Careless singing minstrels,?Who will not starve?Nor sleep cold under the sky?If they receive no largess?Of mine.
Once lived a woman?Of great charity--
At last?Her own children?Begged for bread.
II
I would make you love me?That you might possess?Desire--
For to your heart?Beauty is a burned-out torch,?And Faith, a blind pigeon,?Friendship, a curious Persian myth,?And Love, blank emptiness,?Bearing no significance?Nor any reality.
Only Weariness is yours:?I would make you love me?That you might possess?Desire.
III
Is my love?Of flesh or spirit??I only know to me?Your eyes are wholly you.
Our glances dart?Like the flash of a bird?Gone, before the colour of his wing?Is seen.
I have not bathed my soul?In your eyes,?My soul would drown.
IV
I have starved to know your lips?Yet my soul?Does not die of want.
For only dreams are real,?And fulfilment is an illusion,?There is but one fulfilment,?Blind Nature's way--
My arms reach toward illusion,?And I would carry mist against my heart,?Not the warm, heavy head?Of a sleeping child.
Starving, I hold my dream.
V
What do you seek,?Beloved?
When you have had?All of me?There will remain for you?One beautiful desire the less.
You think you seek my love?But you seek?My denial.
Hunger, Want,?Is the only pain?I would not spare you--?Alas, that too?Will die!
The Silent Pool
Your smile is a heron, flying?Over waters cool,?My thoughts of you are blue Iris!?Today is the silent pool?Which shining heron and Iris blue?Are mirrored on.
Tomorrow?Will still reflect the Iris--?My thoughts of you;?But the heron will be gone.
Nocturne
It is enough?To feel your beauty?With the lingers?Of my heart,
Your beauty, like the starlight,?Filling night so gently, that it dreams?Unwakened.
I should feel your beauty against my face?Though I were blind.
Theme Arranged for Organ
I. PRELUDE
What would you have of me, my friend, in truth,?A breath of understanding, or a glance?Into your soul's dark places? Can a word?Aid in your brave attempt to smother youth??Of what avail that trifling circumstance,?In such a tumult could my voice be heard?
Before your bitter need my lips are dumb?So little can I give you. Should I come?To feed a starving Titan with a crumb?
II. INTERLUDE
Alas, I am too foolish or too wise,?Too soon am blinded or I see too far!?How can I follow with expectant feet,?What is the beacon light that holds your eyes,?Can this blind alley lead to any star?And through this dark confusion, what retreat?
For heaven is awed when comets crash to earth,?But we, who grope and question our soul's worth,?Stumbling, awaken only bitter mirth.
III. POSTLUDE
A breath, a glance, a word,--no more, my friend,?This is the sum of what I have to give?Leaving the tale for ever incomplete.?No perfect moment, and no tragic end,?Within your heart those images shall live?And die like footsteps down an empty street.
Yet all the while a stifled instinct saith:?"Spend your souls vigour to the utmost breath?And let the hounds come baying at the death!"
The Moonlight Sonata
My soul storm-beaten as an ancient pier?Stands forth into the sea; wave on slow wave?Of shining music, luminous and grave,?Lifting against me, pouring through me, here?Find wafts of unforgotten chords, which rise?And droop like clinging sea-weed. You, so white,?So still, so helpless on this fathomless night?Float like a corpse with living, tortured eyes.?Deep waves wash you against me; you impart?No comfort to my spirit, give no sign?Your inarticulate lips can taste