Look! We Have Come Through! | Page 8

menfolk
Hold him your light!
Nourish her, train her, harden her
Women all!?Fold him, be good to him, cherish him
Men, ere he fall.
Women, another champion!
This, men, is yours!?Wreathe and enlap and anoint them
Behind separate doors._
GARGNANO
_WINTER DAWN_
GREEN star Sirius?Dribbling over the lake;?The stars have gone so far on their road,?Yet we're awake!
Without a sound?The new young year comes in?And is half-way over the lake.?We must begin
Again. This love so full?Of hate has hurt us so,?We lie side by side?Moored--but no,
Let me get up?And wash quite clean?Of this hate.--?So green
The great star goes!?I am washed quite clean,?Quite clean of it all.?But e'en
So cold, so cold and clean?Now the hate is gone!?It is all no good,?I am chilled to the bone
Now the hate is gone;?There is nothing left;?I am pure like bone,?Of all feeling bereft.
_A BAD BEGINNING_
THE yellow sun steps over the mountain-top?And falters a few short steps across the lake--?Are you awake?
See, glittering on the milk-blue, morning lake?They are laying the golden racing-track of the
sun;?The day has begun.
The sun is in my eyes, I must get up.?I want to go, there's a gold road blazes before?My breast--which is so sore.
What?--your throat is bruised, bruised with my
kisses??Ah, but if I am cruel what then are you??I am bruised right through.
What if I love you!--This misery?Of your dissatisfaction and misprision?Stupefies me.
Ah yes, your open arms! Ah yes, ah yes,?You would take me to your breast!--But no,?You should come to mine,?It were better so.
Here I am--get up and come to me!?Not as a visitor either, nor a sweet?And winsome child of innocence; nor?As an insolent mistress telling my pulse's beat.
Come to me like a woman coming home?To the man who is her husband, all the rest?Subordinate to this, that he and she?Are joined together for ever, as is best.
Behind me on the lake I hear the steamer drumming
From Austria. There lies the world, and here?Am I. Which way are you coming?
_WHY DOES SHE WEEP?_
HUSH then?why do you cry??It's you and me?the same as before.
If you hear a rustle?it's only a rabbit?gone back to his hole?in a bustle.
If something stirs in the branches?overhead, it will be a squirrel moving?uneasily, disturbed by the stress?of our loving.
Why should you cry then??Are you afraid of God?in the dark?
I'm not afraid of God.?Let him come forth.?If he is hiding in the cover?let him come forth.
Now in the cool of the day?it is we who walk in the trees?and call to God "Where art thou?"?And it is he who hides.
Why do you cry??My heart is bitter.?Let God come forth to justify?himself now.
Why do you cry??Is it Wehmut, ist dir weh??Weep then, yea?for the abomination of our old righteousness,
We have done wrong?many times;?but this time we begin to do right.
Weep then, weep?for the abomination of our past righteousness.?God will keep?hidden, he won't come forth.
_GIORNO DEI MORTI_
ALONG the avenue of cypresses?All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices?Of linen go the chanting choristers,?The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .
And all along the path to the cemetery?The round dark heads of men crowd silently,?And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully?Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands?With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;?And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels?With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels
The coming of the chanting choristers?Between the avenue of cypresses,?The silence of the many villagers,?The candle-flames beside the surplices.
_ALL SOULS_
THEY are chanting now the service of All the Dead?And the village folk outside in the burying ground?Listen--except those who strive with their dead,?Reaching out in anguish, yet unable quite to
touch them:?Those villagers isolated at the grave?Where the candles burn in the daylight, and the
painted wreaths?Are propped on end, there, where the mystery
starts.
The naked candles burn on every grave.?On your grave, in England, the weeds grow.
But I am your naked candle burning,?And that is not your grave, in England,?The world is your grave.?And my naked body standing on your grave?Upright towards heaven is burning off to you?Its flame of life, now and always, till the end.
It is my offering to you; every day is All Souls'
Day.
I forget you, have forgotten you.?I am busy only at my burning,?I am busy only at my life.?But my feet are on your grave, planted.?And when I lift my face, it is a flame that goes up?To the other world, where you are now.?But I am not concerned with you.
I have forgotten you.
I am a naked candle burning on your grave.
_LADY WIFE_
AH yes, I know you well, a sojourner
At the hearth;?I know right well the marriage ring you wear,
And what it's worth.
The angels came to Abraham, and they stayed
In his house awhile;?So you to mine, I imagine; yes, happily
Condescend to be vile.
I see you all the time, you bird-blithe, lovely
Angel in disguise.?I see right well how I ought to be grateful,
Smitten with