War is Kind | Page 4

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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