War is Kind | Page 4

comes to me surely--
Woe is me.
Thou art my love,
And thou art a skull with ruby eyes,
And I love
thee--
Woe is me.
Thou art my love,
And I doubt thee.
And if peace came with thy
murder
Then would I murder--
Woe is me.
Thou art my love,
And thou art death,
Aye, thou art death
Black
and yet black,
But I love thee,
I love thee--
Woe, welcome woe,
to me.
Love, forgive me if I wish you grief,
For in your grief
You huddle
to my breast,
And for it
Would I pay the price of your grief.
You walk among men
And all men do not surrender,
And thus I
understand
That love reaches his hand
In mercy to me.
He had your picture in his room,
A scurvy traitor picture,
And he
smiled
--Merely a fat complacence of men who
know fine women--
And thus I divided with him
A part of my love.
Fool, not to know that thy little shoe
Can make men weep!
--Some
men weep.
I weep and I gnash,
And I love the little shoe,
The
little, little shoe.
God give me medals,
God give me loud honors,
That I may strut
before you, sweetheart,

And be worthy of--
The love I bear you.
Now let me crunch you
With full weight of affrighted love.
I
doubted you
--I doubted you--
And in this short doubting
My love
grew like a genie
For my further undoing.

Beware of my friends,
Be not in speech too civil,
For in all courtesy

My weak heart sees spectres,
Mists of desire
Arising from the
lips of my chosen;
Be not civil.
The flower I gave thee once
Was incident to a stride,
A detail of a
gesture,
But search those pale petals
And see engraven thereon
A
record of my intention.
Ah, God, the way your little finger moved,
As you thrust a bare arm
backward
And made play with your hair
And a comb, a silly gilt
comb
--Ah, God--that I should suffer
Because of the way a little
finger moved.
Once I saw thee idly rocking
--Idly rocking--
And chattering
girlishly to other girls,
Bell-voiced, happy,
Careless with the stout
heart of unscarred
womanhood,
And life to thee was all light melody.
I thought of the
great storms of love as I
knew it,
Torn, miserable, and ashamed of my open
sorrow,
I thought of the thunders that lived in my
head,
And I wish to be an ogre,
And hale and haul my beloved to a
castle,
And make her mourn with my mourning.
Tell me why, behind thee,
I see always the shadow of another lover?

Is it real,
Or is this the thrice damned memory of a
better happiness?
Plague on him if he be dead,
Plague on him if he
be alive--
A swinish numskull
To intrude his shade
Always
between me and my peace!
And yet I have seen thee happy with me.
I am no fool
To poll
stupidly into iron.
I have heard your quick breaths

And seen your

arms writhe toward me;
At those times
--God help us--
I was
impelled to be a grand knight,
And swagger and snap my fingers,

And explain my mind finely.
Oh, lost sweetheart,
I would that I had
not been a grand knight.
I said: "Sweetheart."
Thou said'st:
"Sweetheart."
And we preserved an admirable mimicry
Without
heeding the drip of the blood
From my heart.
I heard thee laugh,
And in this merriment
I defined the measure of
my pain;
I knew that I was alone,
Alone with love,
Poor shivering
love,
And he, little sprite,
Came to watch with me,
And at
midnight,
We were like two creatures by a dead camp-fire.
I wonder if sometimes in the dusk,
When the brave lights that gild thy
evenings
Have not yet been touched with flame,
I wonder if
sometimes in the dusk
Thou rememberest a time,
A time when thou
loved me
And our love was to thee thy all?
Is the memory rubbish
now?
An old gown
Worn in an age of other fashions?
Woe is me,
oh, lost one,
For that love is now to me
A supernal dream,
White,
white, white with many suns.
Love met me at noonday,
--Reckless imp,
To leave his shaded
nights
And brave the glare,--
And I saw him then plainly
For a
bungler,
A stupid, simpering, eyeless bungler,
Breaking the hearts
of brave people
As the snivelling idiot-boy cracks his bowl,
And I
cursed him,
Cursed him to and fro, back and forth,
Into all the silly
mazes of his mind,
But in the end
He laughed and pointed to my
breast,
Where a heart still beat for thee, beloved.
I have seen thy face aflame
For love of me,
Thy fair arms go mad,

Thy lips tremble and mutter and rave.
And--surely--
This should
leave a man content?
Thou lovest not me now,
But thou didst love
me,
And in loving me once
Thou gavest me an eternal privilege,

For I can think of thee.

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