Behond the maiden hath chosen a lover:
She hath woven for herself a bride-wreath of white poppies,
She hath given herself into the arms of him that knows her,
And the maiden and her love are content.
The Two Mothers
The evening before the serpent came,
Just at the hour of the Angelus,
“Body o’me what thing is this,”
Said Eve, sighed Eve,
“That if I be merry and glad,
Or if I be sorry and sad,
I cannot tell;” — and a strange sweet name,
The evening before the serpent came,
Whispered and cried in the heart of Eve.
All alone in Eden’s bowers,
Eve went gathering Mary’s flowers.
The evening before the serpent came,
Just at the first hour of the night,
She reached a flagon of crystal bright,
Sweet Eve, Young Eve,
Snow-white, rose-red, a twi-forked flame,
The evening before the serpent came,
Kindled and burnt in the heart of Eve.
“Where have you been, my bride, my bride?”
“Through the garden’s dusk to the sealèd well
‘Neath the green hillside.”
“What did you see, my wife, my wife?”
“A little white dove in the silvern leaves
Of the Tree of Life.”
Oh dew! Oh tears! in Eden’s bowers
Fell sweet, fell bitter on Mary’s flowers.
The Expulsion
Adam, thou banished man,
Who may not come again,
From thy lost Eden,
Thy loved Garden,
What wilt thou take,
What wilt thou take with thee?
These will I take
These will I take with me:
Odours of cinnamon
Of spikenard of saffron
Dooms-Day
With terror and delight
I meditate Thine eyes
That must, all-seeing, just,
My doings scrutinize
I offer my self to you as cool water in cup of crystal
I offer my self to you as cool water in cup of crystal,
So, sweetly fulfilling the needs of thy body
For thou must drink water or die.
I offer myself as wine graciously held in golden goblet
A subtle drink of fire —
Thy soul hath need of this to live.
Between us two no thanks save knowledge that the gift is life to both:
Were it not sin and bitter waste that thou should die thirsty —
Or poured wine and water lie undrunk?
Evil.
In place secluded from the skies
A silent woman with strange eyes
Hiddenly waiting sits alone
Upon a royal-massive throne
Of smoothly polished malachite;
An emeraldine curious light
Fills all the place and through its chill
Sapphired pale glow, arrested still,
Unpalpitant as heart of death,
I watch her soft-drawn patient breath..
I will go creeping softly in
Her eyes are promises of sin.
La Morte
Vision of vice grown old,
Harlot with wisped grey hair
Streaked drab and green
Where once was false gold’s sheen,
Slack chin, rough wrinkled cheeks, lips bloodless cold,
Going at mid-day through the city streets
In hideous slattern guise;
She whose whole business was to show her body’s sweets
Alluringly, indifferent leaves her ugliness unobscured.
And yet look long and secretly..
Doth there not emanate from where
She is a strange concentrate glow?
Doth not the air about her show
A dove-throat iridescence copper-blue?.. beauty mysteriously
Present in scum blurred thin on stagnant ill-odoured pond?
Corpse-light of lust.. desire’s fixed death-filmed eyes.
Still ghost of touch once live and eager-fond..
Who kissed her pale stale lips would kiss ten thousand thousand kisses
sepulchered.
Girl Fleeing Love
Bridget! Saint Bride!
Whither shall I go
Lest my red cheeks show,
Lest my cheeks sudden-pale
Cry aloud, a tale
I am fain to hide;
That my heart not know
Its own secret oh!
Whither shall I go?
Bridget! Saint Bride!
It’s oh, my dear, the sun shines clear
It’s oh, my dear, the sun shines clear,
And the white road’s fair to see;
And it’s will you follow by hill and hollow
The long white road with me?
It’s love, my dear; it’s joy, my dear,
Oh it’s life calls, sweet and free: —
By hill and hollow, oh will you follow
The long white road with me?
What is to fear when skies are clear
And lover and lass are we?
Then, dear, ah follow, by hill and hollow
The long white road with me!
Clotilda Sings
What is the bitter song that young
Clotilda sings and works all day,
And will not go where lad and lass
Are met in joyous village play?
Oh, young Clotilda sings, how clear
How high and sweet for all to hear, —
Blossoming plum and cherry,
Flowering apple and quince,
In springtime I was merry,
I’ve learned weeping since,
Bitter weeping since.
Her baby at her woeful breast,
Clotilda sings who hath no rest.
Journey’s End.
The sea swings out, the sea swings in,
The grey gulls fly afar,
Each sun-beam catches a crested wave
Like the gleam of a separate star.
She looks to East, she looks to West,
She laughs in the wind and sun;
“He sailed for a year and a day,” she saith,
“And this time is almost done;”
“He has found the gold and the shining gems,
He is bringing them home to me.
Oh long-winged gulls, have you seen his ship?
Where is he, oh swaying sea?”
The gulls fly grey across the clouds,
Sunless the grey waves beat..
Look down, look down, oh doomed woman,
Your love lies at your feet.
There’s a gay girl laughing.
There’s a gay girl laughing
For pleasure of the sky,
Oh, laughing low and tenderly
In love of soft-breathed sigh
Of wind and greying shadows,
That incorporeal lie
Across sun-ardent grasses
Where bird wings poise and fly.
There’s a woman very sorrowful
As empty days go by,
Uncounted hours watched hopelessly
By heart too hurt to cry;
There’s a gay girl laughing
For joy of earth and sky,
And a woman dumbly sorrowful,
Who am I... Who am I..
Champagne.
Yellow-pale and bubbling-bright,
Effervescence of delight,
Froth of laughter, foam of song,
Rain of rose leaves blown along;
Pretty women dressed in pink,
Kisses swift as glasses’ clink: —
Over brim of lifted light,
Yellow-pale and bubbling-bright,
Life, a laugh’s length old is he,
Tips alluring wink at me!
The Black-mailing Ruffian.
But let him try, the Sinner with the Key,
To block my way; I’ll make him let me through!
A tip-toe stand, (ha! ha! now do you see?)
Flap crooked-up arms.. Cry Cock-a-doodle-doo!
Bob White.
Bob White! Bob White!
On brink of night,
On edge of day,
While dawn is grey
In eastern sky,
I hear your cry
Bob White! Bob White!
And what do you say
Bob White? Bob White?
That the sun is up,
That it’s light, light, light!
That it’s time to be out,
Out, out and away,
The day is here,
The glorious day!
That’s what you say
Bob White! Bob White!
In sweet of day
While dawn grows bright.
An Early Christian Hymn: “How doth the Heathen rage”
How doth the ramping Roman rage
These peaceful vales among;
How wide the swathe his comment cuts,
How fatal is his tongue.
We may not smoke, we may not drink,
Our work he holds in scorn;
Of joy bereft, of use despoiled,
He leaves us all forlorn.
A cultured bunch, we hang our heads
While he our faults reveals;
And yet, O Lord, we often write
Our Lectures for ourselves.
Protect, O Lord, thy simple sheep,
These peaceful vales among;
Protect them from the Roman ramp,
The raging Roman tongue!
Non Solo.
The stars are up there in the sky,
I cannot tell the reason why,
Nor call a single one by name —
And yet I love them just the same.
The grass is cool and green and sweet,
I like its feel beneath my feet;
But why it’s green and how it grows
I don’t think anybody knows.
That human beings all should be
Is not a thing that troubles me,
I let the simple facts suffice,
We are — and most of us are nice.
The way a person’s mind can change
From day to day is very strange,
Yet, though I only see it’s true,
I like variety — don’t you?
Oh, many things I do not know;
It’s rather nice to have it so.
The Universe is heaps of fun
If I can’t say how it is run.
To Anacreon.
On his Age.
What thoughtless, silly nymph was she,
The Lesbian, whose divinity
Of darling charm set worshiping
The heart to love’s enrapturing
Sweet service ever dedicate;
But briefest moment would she wait
For the immortal golden ode
To hers and love’s dear beauties vow’d,
Then, careless-mocking, took her flight
Because for-sooth the snow of white
Advancing age lay on the brow
Of him who sang. Ah, let her go,
Belov’d Anacreon, nor grieve
To think that therefore he will leave,
Venus’ wing’d and laughing boy,
His votary bereft of Joy.
Beguiling girls there many be,
As fair, and wiser far, than she.
They welcome time whose coming brings
The art that deep enlighten’d sings
More perfectly their blandishments.
The fine-discerning eye resents
Not signs of wisdom throned secure,
For youth was never connoisseur
And added years do but improve
The heart that’s warmed by wine and love.
Bewail not then the coronal
Of snowy age and venerable
That binds your brow with shining band.
For him whose song-inspired hand
Strikes tunefully the eternal lyre
Of vibrant flaming-stringed desire,
The day of bliss is never over;
He is forever ardent lover.
Traces of the Rustic in Amos.
Tis sad but true that Amos he
Was less polite than ought to be
A prophet though he is but minor;
If he were bidden out to dine or
Sup with colleagues then who knew
What Amos would or wouldn’t do!
When he was urged a fork to try
“A knife is good enough for I,”
The rural Prophet would return,
And, careless, smash the coffee-urn.
Polish he lacked and eke repose,
And now in Paradise he goes.
Are his rough ways still with him there?
For all his colleagues what a care!
How, burdened with a social sinner,
Must they lament his lack of manner!
How, blushing, bitterly regret
His rudimentary etiquette!
Saying, What will the Seraphim
And all the angels think of him!
Crying, Alas how grieve, how shame us
These rustic traces in our Amos!
Truthful Love.
Oh smiling-eyes and darling-heart;
I’m sitting at your feet;
Who ever thought to find on earth
One so beguiling-sweet?
I long to kiss your pretty hands,
My heart cries out aglow,
I love you, love you, smiling-eyes —
And goodness knows, it’s so.
Oh darling-heart and smiling-eyes
You’re so bewitching-dear,
I’d like to spend enchanted days
Just sitting by you here;
My voice implore, ah, may I stay
And never, never go?
You are so sweet, dear darling-heart,
I’m sure you will say no.
The Golden Princess.
Under the lemon trees and orange trees,
Where the birds sing and airy fountains play,
She laughs to feel the laughing breeze,
She laughs to feel the shining of the day.
The fair corn’s silken colour is her hair,
A broidered aureate shimmering is her gown,
Amber and topaz are her chosen wear,
Crowned is she with her royalty’s bright crown;
Sing, birds, for her whose heart sings radiantly
Fountains and breezes laugh as laughs her heart,
Day’s glories, lighten on her lovingly,
Who glorious-loving takes love’s glorious part.
Oh, gallant princess, soul and self sun’s hue,
As heaven tender are thine eyes of blue.
The changed request
O que m’importe que tu sois sage
Sois belle et sois triste
“Be sad, be beautiful, my love,”
He prayed, oh ardent lad;
“Be never a lesser thing, sweet love;
Than beautiful and sad.”
But now what while the coffee steams,
And he grows wise the while,
His ardour prays— “The coffee steams,
Good Lord, my dear — please smile!”
The Poems
Saint Andrew’s Episcopal Church, Rochester, New York — Crapsey’s father was the Rev. Algernon Sidney Crapsey, who became the rector of Saint Andrews in 1879. The family, along with the one-year-old Adelaide, relocated to the rectory at Rochester soon afterwards.
List of Poems in Chronological Order
Loneliness.
Time Flies.
The Heart of a Maid.
Repentance.
Hail Mary!
Birth-Moment
The Mother Exultant
John Keats —
Cinquains
November Night
Release
Triad
Snow
Anguish
Trapped
Moon-shadows
Susanna And The Elders
Youth
Languor After Pain
The Guarded Wound
Winter
Night Winds
Arbutus
Roma Aeterna
He’s killed the may and he’s laid her by / To bear the red rose company.
Amaze
Shadow
Fate Defied
Madness
The Warning —
Saying of II Haboul
The Death Of Holofernes
Laurel In The Berkshires
Niagara
The Grand Canyon
Now Barabbas Was A Robber
Refuge In Darkness
To Walter Savage Landor
The Pledge
Hypnos, God of Sleep
Expenses
Adventure
On Seeing Weather-Beaten Trees
Warning To The Mighty
Oh, Lady, Let The Sad Tears Fall
Dirge
The Sun-Dial
The Entombment
Autumn
Ah me.. Alas..
Perfume of Youth
Rapunzel
Narcissus
Vendor’s Song
AVIS
Doom
Grain Field
Song
Pierrot
The Monk in the Garden
The Mourner
Night
Harvesters’ Song
Rose-Mary Of The Angels
Angélique
Chimes
Mad-Song
The Witch
Cry of the Nymph to Eros
Cradle-Song
The Lonely Death
Lo, All The Way
The Crucifixion
The Immortal Residue
To The Dead in the Grave-Yard Under My Window
To an Unfaithful Lover
To A Hermit Thrush
The Source
For Lucas Cranach’s Eve
Blue Hyacinths.
Fresher
Why have
Lunatick
Thou art not friendly sleep that hath delayed
Complete Works of Adelaide Crapsey Page 5
