Curled petals what ghosts
Of blue headlands and seas,
What perfumed immortal breath sighing
Of Greece.
Fresher
Fresher
Than spring’s new scents
The winter’s earliest wind
Blows from the hills the first faint breath
Of Snow.
Why have
Why have
I thought the dew
Ephemeral when I
Shall rest so short a time, myself,
On earth?
Lunatick
Dost thou
Not feel them slip,
How cold! how cold! the moon’s
Thin wavering finger-tips, along
Thy throat?
Thou art not friendly sleep that hath delayed
Thou art not friendly sleep that hath delayed
The long night through and still at dawn doth keep
Estranged from eyes that very weariness
Makes blind to dawn.
Nor moon
Nor moon,
Nor stars.. the dark.. and in
The dark the grey
Ghost glimmer of the olive trees
The black straight rows
Of Cypresses.
Old Love
More dim than waning moon
Thy face, more faint
Than is the falling wind
Thy voice, yet do
Thine eyes most strangely glow,
Thou ghost.. thou ghost.
My Birds That Fly No Longer
Have ye forgot, sweet birds,
How near the heavens lie?
Drooping, sick-pinion’d, oh
Have ye forgot the sky?
The air that once I knew
Whispered celestial things;
I weep who hear no more
Upward and rushing wings.
The Elgin Marbles
The clustered Gods, the marching lads,
The mighty-limbed, deep-bosomed Three,
The shimmering grey-gold London fog...
I wish that Phidias could see!
Safe.
Force and bluster? Mighty threatenings?
Scorn I lightly, — Not for these.
Tell me when shall great Orion
Catch the flying Pleiades?
Sad of Heart.
Thou beautiful and ivory gates
That shut my tears away from me —
Even, at last, such refuge yield
The great, safe doors of Ebony.
The Event.
Lo, how they weave — the imperturbable three —
Those threads that are my destiny:
Steadily at the eternal task they’re bent
Industrious... indifferent...
Weave, Fates! And what your spinstry weaves I’ll forthwith wear
And if it clothe me for the day or death’s no air.
The Companions
Three grey women walk with me
Fate and Grief and Memory.
My fate brought grief; my grief must be
With me through Eternity,
Such thy power, memory.
Three grey women walk with me.
Epigram
If illness’ end be health regained then I
Will pay you, Asculapeus, when I die.
You Nor I Nor Nobody Knows
You nor I nor nobody knows
Where our daily-taken breath
Vanisheth and vanisheth:
Where our lost breath’s flying goes
You nor I nor nobody knows.
The Proud Poet
Great Kings were dust and all their deeds forgot
Did my harp’s taut and burnished strings stand mute;
The fragrance of dead ladies’ lovely names
Blew never down the wind but for my lute.
The Plaint
Musicians O Musicians: Heartsease
Heartsease; an you will have me live play heartsease.
Light wind in the small green leaves
Play, oh play, my sad heart ease;
Birds, shake from your wilding throats
Tunèd charm of happy notes;
Shepherd, shepherd, pipe a shrill
A jocound pipe o’er vale and hill;
For from too much weeping I,
Maid forlorn, am like to die.
Endymion.
“Let me be young,” the Latmian shepherd prayed,
“And let me have on night-time hills long sleep;”
Whom she of Cynthus saw, Heaven’s crownéd maid,
And gave his youth and dreams her love to keep.
What news comrade upon the mountain top
What news comrade upon the mountain top
From the courts of the sun? What news from the skies
When great Orion strides the open night,
Heaven’s Hunter: hath he told you of Heaven’s
Forests and the quarry of the Gods? They do
Not spare their prey I warrant you. Skillful
And merciless. Saw you young Cynthia threading her
Silver way among the stars and when she yearned o’er him,
The sleeping shepherd on the hills, caught you
Her breath of love? The winds have passed
You in the night, what have they told you of the
Illimitable? — Hath your soul followed thence and gone
beyond the [two undeciphered words] of their journey
envisaged the Ultimate —
Now doth blue kirtled night relume the stars
Now doth blue kirtled night relume the stars
Bidding them light my dear love on his way,
And for his coming takes all tender cares
That he shall find the night more sweet than day.
Tears.
The immemorial grief of all years
Burdens my heart sorely, and the tears
Of slow eternal crying stain my cheeks.
Forever and forever my soul speaks
Saying: I am thy self: Look on me —
And weep. Never and never shalt thou be
As I. Weep; for weeping and hard pain
Of loss measure joy of last visioned gain.
John-a-dreams —
A laggard in the rear of time’s swift feet,
And one who loiters on an aimless way
Through lands he knows not; lured by birds to stray
In secret paths where silence holds the beat
And rustle of ascending wings. Roads meet;
He turns by hazard of some far-glimpsed spray
Of blossoming tree. Shall condemnation say,
Unprofitable! Empty thy days as fleet?
Nay, if perchance he wanders Paradise,
And in unhurried immortality,
Treads child-like wise and ignorant the thrice
Blessed, ultimate regions of the throne of God?
Then needs he not to fear who walks the sod
Of Heaven in angels’ radiant company.
Incantation.
O mia Luna! Porta mi fortuna!
(You must say it nine times, curtseying, and then wish.)
In rose-pale, fading blue of twilight sky,
See, the new moon’s thin crescent shining clear;
Nine times I’ll curtsey murmuring mystic words, —
And wish good fortune to our love, my dear.
Milking Time
Heard ye the maidens
Went through the meadows,
Early, O, early,
While yet the dew was
Wet on the grass?
Heard ye the milk-maids
Singing and singing?
“Cushy cow bonny let down your milk,
And I will give you a gown of silk,
A gown of silk and a silver tee,
If you will let down your milk to me.”
Hear ye the maidens,
Over the meadows,
Wher
e the dew gathers,
Where shadows lengthen,
Hear ye the milk-maids’
Aery, hushed voices
Singing, ah, singing?
“Cushy cow bonny let down your milk,
And I will give you a gown of silk,
A gown of silk and a silver tee,
If you will let down your milk to me.”
Morning and evening,
In the green meadows
Hear ye the milk-maids
And their sweet singing?
The Fiddler
“There’ll be no roof to shelter you;
You’ll have no where to lay your head.
And who will get your food for you?
Star-dust pays for no man’s bread.
So, Jacky, come give me your fiddle
If ever you mean to thrive,”
“I’ll have the skies to shelter me,
The green grass it shall be my bed,
And happen I’ll find some where for me
A sup of drink, a bite of bread;
And I’ll not give my fiddle
To any man alive.”
And it’s out he went across the wold,
His fiddle tucked beneath his chin,
And (golden bow on silver strings)
Smiling he fiddled the twilight in;
And fiddled in the frosty moon,
And all the stars of the Milky Way,
And fiddled low through the dark o’ dawn,
And laughed and fiddled in the day.
But oh, he had nor bite nor sup,
And oh, the winds blew stark and cold,
And when he dropped on his grass-green bed
It’s long he slept on the open wold.
They digged his grave and “There,” they said,
“He’s got more land than ever he had,
And well it will keep him held and housed,
The feckless bit of a fiddling lad.”
And it’s out he’s stepped across the wold
His fiddle tucked beneath his chin —
A wavering shape in the wavering light,
Smiling he fiddles the twilight in,
And fiddles in the frosty moon,
And all the stars of the Milky Way,
And fiddles low through the dark o’ dawn,
And laughs and fiddles in the day.
He needeth not or bite or sup,
The winds of night he need not fear,
And (bow of gold on silver strings)
It’s all the people turn to hear.
“Oh, never,” it’s all the people cry,
“Came such sweet sounds from mortal hand;”
And “Listen,” they say, “It’s some ghostly boy
That goes a-fiddling through the land.
Heark you! It’s night comes slipping in, —
The moon and the stars that tread the sky;
And there’s the breath o’ the world that stops;
And now with a shout the sun comes by!”
Who heareth him he heedeth not
But smiles content, the fiddling-lad;
“It’s many and many a happy day,”
He says, “My fiddle and I have had;
And I’ll not give my fiddle
To any man alive.”
Aubade.
The morning is new and the skies are fresh washed with light,
The day cometh in with the sun and I awake laughing.
Hasten, belovèd!
For see, while you were yet sleeping
The cool and virgin feet of dawn went soundless over grey meadows,
And the earth is requickened under her touch.
The vision that came with gradual steps departeth in an instant;
Hasten, lest it be unbeheld of your eyes.
The Parting.
Was it love breathed on us as on the skies
Dawn breathes for a short space and then is fled;
Or loved we never at all who but misread
With too dim vision the guarded mysteries?
Were we unfaithful or were we unwise,
Knew we not love, or if our love is dead,
If such were true, for grace of what is sped,
Could we not part with unaverted eyes?
But whence these looks askance as at strange fears?
And whence the far and muffled cryings that beat
Across the moment of our dire farewell?
Is here of sentience the dread burial?
Is it a still quick love that hear, oh hears,
The last earth fall, the sound of vanishing feet?
As I Went
As I went, as I went,
Over the mountains,
I heard, I heard,
Through cloud-wreath and mist,
A hound that was baying —
Death.. it was death.
As I went, as I went
Over the meadows,
I heard, I heard,
From thicket, from shadow,
A hidden bird fluting —
Death.. it was death.
As I went, as I went
By rocks and by sand-dunes,
I heard, I heard,
At the sea’s bottom
A silver fish swimming —
Death.. it was death.
As I went, as I went
In my house, in my house,
I heard, I heard,
A footfall, a footfall
Closely behind me —
Death.. it is death..
Lines Addressed To My Left Lung Inconveniently Enamoured Of Plant-Life
It was, my lung, most strange of you,
A freak I cannot pardon,
Thus to transform yourself into
A vegetable-garden.
Though laking William set erewhile
His seal on rural fashions,
I must deplore, bewail, revile
Your horticultural passions.
And as your ways I thus lament
(Which, plainly, I call crazy)
For all I know, serene, content,
You think yourself a daisy!
Lament
Oh dear me, a maid unlucky,
Though I’ve searched the green fields over,
Peering, peeping, I have never
Found a single four-leaf clover.
Oh dear me, it’s most unlucky.
Grave Digger Catch
The new moon
And a red rose
The old moon
And a dead rose
Wield the pick
And wield the spade
Dig.. dig.. dig
And a grave is made:
Who danced in the light
In dark he’ll sleep
Dig his bed for him
Deep.. deep.. deep.
The Song of Choice.
The maiden sat enthroned on the throne of her maidenhood:
There were two lovers that came to her to win her,
And one lover brought gift of red poppies,
And the other carried a sheaf of white poppies in his arms.
And one lover said:
I bring you gift of red poppies:
Your hair is golden and long,
Your hair is soft as cast shadows,
Your hair is as the path of the sun’s light on the sea.
Make for yourself a wreath of red poppies
For the adorning of your golden hair.
And the other saith:
I bring you white poppies:
They are white as the still white thought of holiness
That stirred in your soul when you awoke alone at dawn.
And the maiden rejoiced in her hair that was golden.
And one lover said:
Your eyes are as wells of darkling light
And your mouth is as wine-stains:
Let the red of my poppies gladden your eyes,
Take my red poppies in your hands
And lift them up for the kiss
es of your red, red mouth.
And the other saith:
I bring you white poppies:
They are white as the still white thought of holiness
That stirred in your soul when you awoke alone at dawn.
And the maiden rejoiced that her eyes were as wells of light and her
mouth as crimson wine-stains.
And one lover said:
Hold my red poppies between your breasts.
Your breasts are lovely and white
And colour against colour it shall be as blood upon snow;
Your breasts shall be rosily overcast
With the light of the poppies between them.
And the other saith:
I bring you white poppies:
They are white as the still white thought of holiness
That stirred in your soul when you awoke alone at dawn.
And the maiden rejoiced in her breasts that were lovely and white;
She longed for the red poppies to hold them between her breasts.
And one lover said:
Your blood is red and your heart is red
And the poppies of my offering are a fine, keen scarlet.
The maiden arose and stepped down from her throne.
She reached forth her hands to take the heart-red poppies,
She stretched out her hands for the poppies that were red as blood;
Whenas she felt as it were a great rending within her
And faltering she stood in trouble between her lovers.
And one lover said:
It is your pleasure that cries out in you to be accomplish’d.
And the other saith:
Oh, sweet, I know your pain.
Behold the maiden hath chosen a lover:
She hath stepped down from her throne,
She hath found her a dwelling in the heart of her lover:
He holds her in his arms:
He stoops to kiss the sleeve of her garment that is white as the wings of
white doves.
Complete Works of Adelaide Crapsey Page 4
