Nets to Catch the Wind | Page 5

freezing, to
brittle
And delicate glass.
Each a sharp-pointed flower,
Each a brief stalactite
Which hangs
for an hour
In the blue cave of night.
THE FALCON
Why should my sleepy heart be taught
To whistle mocking-bird
replies?
This is another bird you've caught,
Soft-feathered, with a
falcon's eyes.
The bird Imagination,
That flies so far, that dies so soon;
Her wings
are colored like the sun,
Her breast is colored like the moon.
Weave her a chain of silver twist,
And a little hood of scarlet wool,

And let her perch upon your wrist,
And tell her she is beautiful.

BRONZE TRUMPETS AND SEA WATER--
ON TURNING
LATIN INTO ENGLISH
Alembics turn to stranger things
Strange things, but never while we
live
Shall magic turn this bronze that sings
To singing water in a
sieve.
The trumpeters of Caesar's guard
Salute his rigorous bastions
With
ordered bruit; the bronze is hard
Though there is silver in the bronze.
Our mutable tongue is like the sea,
Curled wave and shattering
thunder-fit;
Dangle in strings of sand shall be
Who smooths the
ripples out of it.
SPRING PASTORAL
Liza, go steep your long white hands
In the cool waters of that spring

Which bubbles up through shiny sands
The color of a wild-dove's
wing.
Dabble your hands, and steep them well
Until those nails are pearly
white
Now rosier than a laurel bell;
Then come to me at
candle-light.
Lay your cold hands across my brows,
And I shall sleep, and I shall
dream
Of silver-pointed willow boughs
Dipping their fingers in a
stream.
VELVET SHOES
Let us walk in the white snow
In a soundless space;
With footsteps
quiet and slow,
At a tranquil pace,
Under veils of white lace.
I shall go shod in silk,
And you in wool,
White as a white cow's
milk,
More beautiful
Than the breast of a gull.

We shall walk through the still town
In a windless peace;
We shall
step upon white down,
Upon silver fleece,
Upon softer than these.
We shall walk in velvet shoes:
Wherever we go
Silence will fall
like dews
On white silence below.
We shall walk in the snow.
VALENTINE
Too high, too high to pluck
My heart shall swing.
A fruit no bee
shall suck,
No wasp shall sting.
If on some night of cold
It falls to ground
In apple-leaves of gold

I'll wrap it round.
And I shall seal it up
With spice and salt,
In a carven silver cup,

In a deep vault.
Before my eyes are blind
And my lips mute,
I must eat core and
rind
Of that same fruit.
Before my heart is dust
At the end of all,
Eat it I must, I must

Were it bitter gall.
But I shall keep it sweet
By some strange art;
Wild honey I shall eat

When I eat my heart.
O honey cool and chaste
As clover's breath!
Sweet Heaven I shall
taste
Before my death.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Nets to Catch the Wind, by
Elinor Wylie
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