Mae Madden | Page 4

feet--why, her feet, in the
white shining sand,
Were so small they might nest in my one brawny
hand.
Then she pushed back her hair with a round hand that shone


And flashed in the light with a white starry stone.
IX.
Then, my love she was rich. My love she was fair.
Was she pure as
the snow on the Alps over there?
She was gorgeous with wealth,
"Thank God, she has bread,"
I said to myself. Then I humbled my
head
In gratitude. Then I questioned me where
Was her palace? her
parents? What name did she bear?
What mortal on earth came nearest
her heart?
Who touched the small hand till it thrilled to a smart?

'Twas her day to be young. She was proud, she was fair.
Was she
pure as the snow on the Alps over there?
X.
Now she turned, reached a hand; then a tall gondolier
That had leaned
on his oar, like a long lifted spear,
Shot sudden and swift and all
silently
And drew to her side as she turned from the tide. . .
It was
odd, such a thing, and I counted it queer
That a princess like this,
whether virgin or bride,
Should abide thus apart, and should bathe in
that sea;
And I shook back my hair, and so unsatisfied.
Then I
fluttered the doves that were perched close about,
As I strode up and
down in dismay and in doubt.
XI.
Then she stood in the boat on the borders of night
As a goddess might
stand on that far wonder land
Of eternal sweet life, which men have
named Death.
I turned to the sea and I caught at my breath,
As she
drew from the boat through her white baby hand
Her vestment of
purple imperial, and white.
Then the gondola shot! swift, sharp from
the shore.
There was never the sound of a song or of oar
But the
doves hurried home in white clouds to Saint Mark,
And the lion
loomed high o'er the sea in the dark.

XII.
Then I cried, "Quick! Follow her. Follow her. Fast!
Come! Thrice
double fare if you follow her true
To her own palace door." There
was plashing of oar
And rattle of rowlock. . . . I sat leaning low

Looking far in the dark, looking out as we sped
With my soul all alert,
bending down, leaning low.
But only the oaths of the men as we
passed
When we jostled them sharp as we sudden shot thro'
The
watery town. Then a deep, distant roar--
The rattle of rowlock, the
rush of the oar.
XIII.
Then an oath. Then a prayer! Then a gust that made rents
Through the
yellow sailed fishers. Then suddenly
Came sharp forked fire! Then
far thunder fell
Like the great first gun! Ah, then there was route
Of
ships like the breaking of regiments
And shouts as if hurled from an
upper hell.
Then tempest! It lifted, it spun us about,
Then shot us
ahead through the hills of the sea
As if a great arrow shot shoreward
in wars--
Then heaven split open till we saw the blown stars.
XIV.
On! On! Through the foam, through the storm, through the town, She
was gone. She was lost in the wilderness
Of palaces lifting their
marbles of snow.
I stood in my gondola. Up and all down
I pushed
through the surge of the salt-flood street
Above me, below. . . Twas
only the beat
Of the sea's sad heart. . . Then I heard below
The
water-rat building, but nothing but that;
Not even the sea bird
screaming distress,
As she lost her way in that wilderness.
XV.
I listened all night. I caught at each sound;
I clutched and I caught as
a man that drown'd. . . .
Only the sullen low growl of the sea
Far out

the flood street at the edge of the ships.
Only the billow slow licking
his lips,
Like a dog that lay crouching there watching for me;

Growling and showing white teeth all the night,
Reaching his neck
and as ready to bite--
Only the waves with their salt flood tears

Fawning white stones of a thousand years.
XVI.
Only the birds in the wilderness
Of column and dome and of
glittering spire
That thrust to heaven and held the fire
Of the
thunder still: The bird's distress
As he struck his wings in that
wilderness,
On marbles that speak and thrill and inspire. . .
The
night below and the night above;
The water-rat building, the startled
white dove,
The wide-winged, dolorous sea bird's call
The water-rat
building, but that was all.
XVII.
Lo! pushing the darkness from pillar to post,
The morning came
silent and gray like a ghost
Slow up the canal. I leaned from the prow

And listened. Not even the bird in distress
Screaming above
through the wilderness;
Not even the stealthy old water-rat now.

Only the bell in the fisherman's tower
Slow tolling a-sea and telling
the hour
To kneel to their sweet Santa Barbara
For tawny fishers
a-sea and pray.

XVIII.
My dream it is ended, the curtain withdrawn.
The night that lay hard
on the breast of earth,
Deep and heavy as a horrid nightmare,

Moves