Silverpoints | Page 3

bride,
Woodbine, with her gummy hands,

All his horny claws expands;
She has withered in his grasp.
"Till the day dawn, till the tide
Of the winter's afternoon."
"Who
tells dawning?"--"Listen, soon."
Half born tendrils, grasping, gasp.
Je pleure dans les coins; je n'ai plus goût à rien;
Oh! j'ai tant pleuré,
Dimanche, en mon paroissien!
JULES LAFORGUE
Did we not, Darling, you and I,
Walk on the earth like other men?

Did we not walk and wonder why
They spat upon us so. And then
We lay us down among fresh earthy
Sweet flowers breaking overhead,

Sore needed rest for our frail girth,
For our frail hearts; a
well-sought bed.
So Spring came, and spread daffodils;
Summer, and fluffy bees sang
on;
The fluffy bee knows us, and fills
His house with sweet to think
upon.
Deep in the dear dust, Dear, we dream,
Our melancholy is a thing

At last our own; and none esteem
How our black lips are blackening.
And none note how our poor eyes fall,
Nor how our cheeks are sunk
and sere . . .
Dear, when you waken, will you call? . . .
Alas! we are
not very near.
Ainsi, elle viendrait à moi! les yeux bien fous!
Et elle me suivrait

avec cet air partout!
TO E. M. G.
Lean back, and press the pillow deep,
Heart's dear demesne, dear
Daintiness;
Close your tired eyes, but not to sleep . . .
How very
pale your pallor is!
You smile, your cheek's voluptuous line
Melts in your dimpled saucy
cave.
Your hairbraids seem a wilful vine,
Scorning to imitate a
wave.
Your voice is tenebrous, as if
An angel mocked a blackbird's pipe.

You are my magic orchard feoff,
Where bud and fruit are always ripe.
O apple garden! all the days
Are fain to crown the darling year,

Ephemeral bells and garland bays,
Shy blade and lusty, bursting ear.
In every kiss I call you mine,
Tell me, my dear, how pure, how brave

Our child will be! what velvet eyne,
What bonny hair our child will
have!
CROCUSES IN GRASS
TO CHARLES HAZELWOOD SHANNON
Purple and white the crocus flowers,
And yellow, spread upon
The sober lawn; the hours
Are not more
idle in the sun.
Perhaps one droops a prettier head,
And one would say: Sweet Queen,
Your lips are white and red,
And
round you lies the grass most green.
And she, perhaps, for whom is fain

The other, will not heed;
Or, that he may complain,
Babbles, for
dalliaunce, with a weed.
And he dissimulates despair,
And anger, and suprise;
The while white daisies stare
--And stir
not--with their yellow eyes.
POEM
TO ARTHUR EDMONDS
Geranium, houseleek, laid in oblong beds
On the trim grass. The
daisies' leprous stain
Is fresh. Each night the daisies burst again,

Though every day the gardener crops their heads.
A wistful child, in foul unwholesome shreds,
Recalls some legend of
a daisy chain
That makes a pretty necklace. She would fain
Make
one, and wear it, if she had some threads.
Sun, leprous flowers, foul child. The asphalt burns.
The garrulous
sparrows perch on metal Burns.
Sing! Sing! they say, and flutter with
their wings.
He does not sing, he only wonders why
He is sitting
there. The sparrows sing. And I
Yield to the strait allure of simple
things.
ON A PICTURE
TO PIERRE LOUYS
Not pale, as one in sleep or holier death,
Nor illcontent the lady
seems, nor loth
To lie in shadow of shrill river growth,
So steadfast
are the river's arms beneath.
Pale petals follow her in very faith,
Unmixed with pleasure or regret,
and both
Her maidly hands look up, in noble sloth
To take the
blossoms of her scattered wreath.

No weakest ripple lives to kiss her throat.
Nor dies in meshes of
untangled hair;
No movement stirs the floor of river moss.
Until some furtive glimmer gleam across
Voluptuous mouth, where
even teeth are bare,
And gild the broidery of her petticoat. . . .
PARSIFAL IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH
OF PAUL
VERLAINE
Conquered the flower-maidens, and the wide embrace
Of their round
proffered arms, that tempt the virgin boy;
Conquered the trickling of
their babbling tongues; the coy
Back glances, and the mobile breasts
of subtle grace;
Conquered the Woman Beautiful, the fatal charm
Of her hot breast,
the music of her babbling tongue;
Conquered the gate of Hell, into
the gate the young
Man passes, with the heavy trophy at his arm,
The holy Javelin that pierced the Heart of God.
He heals the dying
king, he sits upon the throne,
King, and high priest of that great gift,
the living Blood.
In robe of gold the youth adores the glorious Sign
Of the green goblet,
worships the mysterious Wine.
And oh! the chime of children's
voices in the dome.
A CRUCIFIX
TO ERNEST DOWSON
A gothic church. At one end of an aisle,
Against a wall where mystic
sunbeams smile
Through painted windows, orange, blue, and gold,

The Christ's unutterable charm behold.
Upon the cross, adorned with
gold and green,
Long fluted golden tongues of sombre sheen,
Like
four flames joined in one, around the head
And by the outstretched
arms, their glory spread.
The statue is of wood; of natural size


Tinted; one almost sees before one's