Mae Madden | Page 4

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 by, and I look to the rosy dawn. . . . .?I shall leave you here, with a leader fair;?One gentle, with faith and fear of her worth.?She shall lead you on through that Italy?That the gods have loved; and may it be?A light-hearted hour that, hand in hand,?You wander the warm and the careless love-land.
XIX.
By the windy waters of the Michigan?She invokes the gods. . . . Be it bright or dim,?Who does his endeavor as best he can?Does bravely, indeed. The rest is