The Five Books of Youth | Page 6

the smoky park the dingy plane-trees stir,?Green branches in the twilight fade and blur;?A lonely girl walks slowly through the square
And the wind speaks to her.
Speaks of the sunset scattered on the sea,?And the spring blowing northward radiantly;?Flaming in lightning from cyclonic dark,
Dreams of delights to be.
Tomorrow there will be orchards filled with fruit,?And song of meadow lark and song of flute;?Far from the city there are lover's fields,
Lips eloquent and mute.
Warm are the winds out of the ebbing day,?Blowing the ships and the spring into the bay,?I smell the cherry blossoms falling gaily
In gardens of Cathay.
Paris, 1919
II
Like children on a sunny shore?The rhododendrons thrive?Which never any spring before?Have been so much alive.
Each metal bough benignly lit?With yellow candle flames;?The tree is holy, hallow it?With sacramental names.
Paris, 1919
III
Against my wall the summer weaves?Profundities of dusky leaves,?And many-petaled stars full-blown?In constellated whiteness sown;?I contemplate with lazy eyes?My small estate in Paradise,?And very comforting to me?Is this familiarity.
Paris, 1919
IV
Into the trembling air,?Calm on the sunset mist,?Sweetness of gardens where?The yellow slave boy kissed?The Sultan's daughter....
Shadow of tumbled hair?Shadow of hanging vine?Fountains of gold that twine?In singing water.
A secret I have heard?From the scarlet beak of the bird?That sings at the close of day,?Fills me with cold unrest?Under the open doors of the fiery west.
"O heart of clay,?O lips of dust,?O blue-shadowed wisteria vine;?Youth falls away?As petals must?Beneath the drooping leaves in the day's decline."
Paris, 1919
V
In gardens when the sun is set,?The air is heavy with the wet?Faint smell of leaves, and dark incense?Of peach-blossom and violet.
There is no lurking foe to fear,?Only the friendly ghosts are here?Of lazy youth and dozing age,?Who sat and mellowed year by year,
Until they merged with all the rest?Beneath the overhanging west,?And took their sleep with tranquil hearts?Safe in our Mother's mighty breast.
If there be any sound, 'tis sweet,?The hidden rush of eager feet?Where robins flutter in the dust,?Or perch upon the garden-seat,
And little voices that are known?To those who contemplate alone?The busy universe that moves?In gardens rank and overgrown.
Here in the garden we are one,?The golden dust, the setting sun,?The languid leaves, the birds and I,--?Small bubbles on oblivion.
Tours, 1918
VI
Now the white dove has found her mate,?And the rainbow breaks into stars;?And the cattle lunge through the mossy gate?As the old man lowers the bars.
Westerly wind with a rainy smell,?Eaves that drip in the mud;?And the pain of the tender miracle?Stabbing the languid blood.
Over the long, wet meadow-land,?Beyond the deep sunset,?There is a hand that pressed your hand,?And eyes that shall not forget.
Now the West is the door of wrath,?Now 'tis a burnt-out coal;?Petals fall on the orchard path;?Darkness falls on the soul.
Washington, 1918
VII
When voices sink in twilight silences,?Like swimmers in a sea of quietude,?And faint farewells re-echo from the hill;?When the last thrush his sleepy vesper says,?And the lost threnody of the whip-poor-will?Gropes through the gathering shadows in the wood;
Then in the paths where dusk fades into grey,?And sighing shapes stir that I never see,?I follow still a quest of old despair?To find at last,--ah, but I cannot say,?Except that I have known a face somewhere,?And loved in times beyond all memory.
O soulless face! white flash in solitude,?Forgotten phantom of a moonless night,?Shall I kiss thy sad mouth once again, or wait?Drowned beneath fathoms of a tideless mood?Until the stars flee through the western gate?Driven in shivering fear before the light?
Cambridge, 1916
VIII
When noon is blazing on the town,?The fields are loud with droning flies,?The people pull their curtains down,?And all the houses shut their eyes.
The palm leaf drops from your mother's hand?And she dozes there in a darkened room,?Outside there is silence on the land,?And only poppies dare to bloom.
Open the door and steal away?Through grain and briar shoulder high,?There are secrets hid in the heart of day,?In the hush and slumber of July.
Your face will burn a fiery red,?Your feet will drag through dusty flame,?Your brain turn molten in your head,?And you will wish you never came.
O never mind, go on, go on,--?There is a brook where willows lean;?To weave deep caverns from the sun,
And there the grass grows cool and green.?And there is one as cool as grass,?Lying beneath the willow tree,?Counting the dragon flies that pass,?And talking to the humble bee.
She has not stirred since morning came,?She does not know how in the town?The earth shakes dizzily with flame,?And all the curtains are drawn down.
Sit down beside her; she can tell?The strangest secrets you would hear,?And cool as water in a well,?Her words flow down upon your ear....
She speaks no more, but in your hair?Her fingers soft as lullabies?Fold up your senses unaware,?Into a poppy paradise.
And when you wake, the evening mist?Is rising up to float the hill,?And you will say, "The mouth I kissed,?The voice I heard...a dream...but still
"The grass is matted where she lay,?I feel her fingers in my hair"...?But