Amores: Poems

CLOSE your eyes, my love, let me make you blind;
            They have taught you to see
     Only a mean arithmetic on the face of things,
     A cunning algebra in the faces of men,
            And God like geometry
     Completing his circles, and working cleverly.

     I'll kiss you over the eyes till I kiss you blind;
            If I can—if any one could.
     Then perhaps in the dark you'll have got what you
              want to find.
     You've discovered so many bits, with your clever
              eyes,
            And I'm a kaleidoscope
     That you shake and shake, and yet it won't come to
              your mind.
     Now stop carping at me.—But God, how I hate you!
            Do you fear I shall swindle you?
     Do you think if you take me as I am, that that will
              abate you
     Somehow?—so sad, so intrinsic, so spiritual, yet so
              cautious, you
     Must have me all in your will and your consciousness—
            I hate you.

ROUND clouds roll in the arms of the wind,
     The round earth rolls in a clasp of blue sky,
     And see, where the budding hazels are thinned,
          The wild anemones lie
     In undulating shivers beneath the wind.

     Over the blue of the waters ply
     White ducks, a living flotilla of cloud;
     And, look you, floating just thereby,
          The blue-gleamed drake stems proud
     Like Abraham, whose seed should multiply.

     In the lustrous gleam of the water, there
     Scramble seven toads across the silk, obscure leaves,
     Seven toads that meet in the dusk to share
          The darkness that interweaves
     The sky and earth and water and live things everywhere.

     Look now, through the woods where the beech-green
          spurts
     Like a storm of emerald snow, look, see
        A great bay stallion dances, skirts
          The bushes sumptuously,
     Going outward now in the spring to his brief deserts.

     Ah love, with your rich, warm face aglow,
     What sudden expectation opens you
        So wide as you watch the catkins blow
          Their dust from the birch on the blue
     Lift of the pulsing wind—ah, tell me you know!

     Ah, surely! Ah, sure from the golden sun
     A quickening, masculine gleam floats in to all
        Us creatures, people and flowers undone,
          Lying open under his thrall,
     As he begets the year in us. What, then, would you
            shun?

     Why, I should think that from the earth there fly
     Fine thrills to the neighbour stars, fine yellow beams
        Thrown lustily off from our full-blown, high
          Bursting globe of dreams,
     To quicken the spheres that are virgin still in the sky.

     Do you not hear each morsel thrill
     With joy at travelling to plant itself within
        The expectant one, therein to instil
          New rapture, new shape to win,
     From the thick of life wake up another will?

     Surely, and if that I would spill
     The vivid, ah, the fiery surplus of life,
        From off my brimming measure, to fill
          You, and flush you rife
     With increase, do you call it evil, and always evil?

REJECT me not if I should say to you
     I do forget the sounding of your voice,
     I do forget your eyes that searching through
     The mists perceive our marriage, and rejoice.

     Yet, when the apple-blossom opens wide
     Under the pallid moonlight's fingering,
     I see your blanched face at my breast, and hide
     My eyes from diligent work, malingering.

     Ah, then, upon my bedroom I do draw
     The blind to hide the garden, where the moon
     Enjoys the open blossoms as they straw
     Their beauty for his taking, boon for boon.

     And I do lift my aching arms to you,
     And I do lift my anguished, avid breast,
     And I do weep for very pain of you,
     And fling myself at the doors of sleep, for rest.

     And I do toss through the troubled night for you,
     Dreaming your yielded mouth is given to mine,
     Feeling your strong breast carry me on into
     The peace where sleep is stronger even than wine.

THE shorn moon trembling indistinct on her path,
     Frail as a scar upon the pale blue sky,
     Draws towards the downward slope; some sorrow
          hath
     Worn her down to the quick, so she faintly fares
     Along her foot-searched way without knowing why
     She creeps persistent down the sky's long stairs.

     Some say they see, though I have never seen,
     The dead moon heaped within the new moon's arms;
     For surely the fragile, fine young thing had been
     Too heavily burdened to mount the heavens so.
     But my heart stands still, as a new, strong dread
          alarms
     Me; might a young girl be heaped with such shadow
          of woe?

     Since Death from the mother moon has pared us
          down to the quick,
     And cast us forth like shorn, thin moons, to travel
     An uncharted way among the myriad thick
     Strewn stars of silent people, and luminous litter
     Of lives which sorrows like mischievous dark mice
          chavel
     To nought, diminishing each star's glitter,

     Since Death has delivered us utterly, naked and
          white,
     Since the month of childhood is over, and we stand
          alone,
     Since the beloved, faded moon that set us alight
     Is delivered from us and pays no heed though we
          moan
     In sorrow, since we stand in bewilderment, strange
     And fearful to sally forth down the sky's long range.

     We may not cry to her still to sustain us here,
     We may not hold her shadow back from the dark.
     Oh, let us here forget, let us take the sheer
     Unknown that lies before us, bearing the ark
     Of the covenant onwards where she cannot go.
     Let us rise and leave her now, she will never know.

     I WONDER if with you, as it is with me,
     If under your slipping words, that easily flow
     About you as a garment, easily,
          Your violent heart beats to and fro!

     Long have I waited, never once confessed,
     Even to myself, how bitter the separation;
     Now, being come again, how make the best
          Reparation?

     If I could cast this clothing off from me,
     If I could lift my naked self to you,
     Or if only you would repulse me, a wound would be
          Good; it would let the ache come through.

     But that you hold me still so kindly cold
     Aloof my flaming heart will not allow;
     Yea, but I loathe you that you should withhold
          Your pleasure now.

THE earth again like a ship steams out of the dark
         sea over
     The edge of the blue, and the sun stands up to see
         us glide
     Slowly into another day; slowly the rover
     Vessel of darkness takes the rising tide.

     I, on the deck, am startled by this dawn confronting
     Me who am issued amazed from the darkness,
         stripped
     And quailing here in the sunshine, delivered from
         haunting
     The night unsounded whereon our days are shipped.

     Feeling myself undawning, the day's light playing
         upon me,
     I who am substance of shadow, I all compact
     Of the stuff of the night, finding myself all wrongly
     Among the crowds of things in the sunshine jostled
         and racked.

     I with the night on my lips, I sigh with the silence
         of death;
     And what do I care though the very stones should
         cry me unreal, though the clouds
     Shine in conceit of substance upon me, who am less
         than the rain.
     Do I not know the darkness within them? What
         are they but shrouds?

     The clouds go down the sky with a wealthy ease
     Casting a shadow of scorn upon me for my share in
         death; but I
     Hold my own in the midst of them, darkling, defy
     The whole of the day to extinguish the shadow I lift
         on the breeze.

     Yea, though the very clouds have vantage over
         me,
     Enjoying their glancing flight, though my love is
         dead,
     I still am not homeless here, I've a tent by day
     Of darkness where she sleeps on her perfect bed.

     And I know the host, the minute sparkling of darkness
     Which vibrates untouched and virile through the
         grandeur of night,
     But which, when dawn crows challenge, assaulting
         the vivid motes
     Of living darkness, bursts fretfully, and is bright:

         Runs like a fretted arc-lamp into light,
         Stirred by conflict to shining, which else
         Were dark and whole with the night.

         Runs to a fret of speed like a racing wheel,
         Which else were aslumber along with the whole
         Of the dark, swinging rhythmic instead of a-reel.

         Is chafed to anger, bursts into rage like thunder;
         Which else were a silent grasp that held the
              heavens
         Arrested, beating thick with wonder.

         Leaps like a fountain of blue sparks leaping
         In a jet from out of obscurity,
         Which erst was darkness sleeping.

         Runs into streams of bright blue drops,
         Water and stones and stars, and myriads
         Of twin-blue eyes, and crops

         Of floury grain, and all the hosts of day,
         All lovely hosts of ripples caused by fretting
         The Darkness into play.

SHE bade me follow to her garden, where
     The mellow sunlight stood as in a cup
     Between the old grey walls; I did not dare
     To raise my face, I did not dare look up,
     Lest her bright eyes like sparrows should fly in
     My windows of discovery, and shrill "Sin."

     So with a downcast mien and laughing voice
     I followed, followed the swing of her white dress
     That rocked in a lilt along: I watched the poise
     Of her feet as they flew for a space, then paused to
         press
     The grass deep down with the royal burden of her:
     And gladly I'd offered my breast to the tread of her.

     "I like to see," she said, and she crouched her down,
     She sunk into my sight like a settling bird;
     And her bosom couched in the confines of her gown
     Like heavy birds at rest there, softly stirred
     By her measured breaths: "I like to see," said she,
     "The snap-dragon put out his tongue at me."

     She laughed, she reached her hand out to the flower,
     Closing its crimson throat. My own throat in her
         power
     Strangled, my heart swelled up so full
     As if it would burst its wine-skin in my throat,
     Choke me in my own crimson. I watched her pull
     The gorge of the gaping flower, till the blood did
     float

           Over my eyes, and I was blind—
         Her large brown hand stretched over
         The windows of my mind;
         And there in the dark I did discover
         Things I was out to find:
         My Grail, a brown bowl twined
         With swollen veins that met in the wrist,
         Under whose brown the amethyst
         I longed to taste. I longed to turn
         My heart's red measure in her cup,
         I longed to feel my hot blood burn
         With the amethyst in her cup.

         Then suddenly she looked up,
         And I was blind in a tawny-gold day,
         Till she took her eyes away.
         So she came down from above
         And emptied my heart of love.
         So I held my heart aloft
         To the cuckoo that hung like a dove,
         And she settled soft

       It seemed that I and the morning world
       Were pressed cup-shape to take this reiver
       Bird who was weary to have furled
       Her wings in us,
       As we were weary to receive her.

              This bird, this rich,
              Sumptuous central grain,
              This mutable witch,
              This one refrain,
              This laugh in the fight,
              This clot of night,
              This core of delight.

       She spoke, and I closed my eyes
       To shut hallucinations out.
       I echoed with surprise
       Hearing my mere lips shout
       The answer they did devise.

         Again I saw a brown bird hover
         Over the flowers at my feet;
         I felt a brown bird hover
         Over my heart, and sweet
         Its shadow lay on my heart.
         I thought I saw on the clover
         A brown bee pulling apart
         The closed flesh of the clover
         And burrowing in its heart.

         She moved her hand, and again
         I felt the brown bird cover
         My heart; and then
         The bird came down on my heart,
         As on a nest the rover
         Cuckoo comes, and shoves over
         The brim each careful part
         Of love, takes possession, and settles her down,
         With her wings and her feathers to drown
         The nest in a heat of love.

     She turned her flushed face to me for the glint
     Of a moment. "See," she laughed, "if you also
     Can make them yawn." I put my hand to the dint
     In the flower's throat, and the flower gaped wide
         with woe.
     She watched, she went of a sudden intensely still,
     She watched my hand, to see what I would fulfil.

     I pressed the wretched, throttled flower between
     My fingers, till its head lay back, its fangs
     Poised at her. Like a weapon my hand was white
         and keen,
     And I held the choked flower-serpent in its pangs
     Of mordant anguish, till she ceased to laugh,
     Until her pride's flag, smitten, cleaved down to the
         staff.

     She hid her face, she murmured between her lips
     The low word "Don't." I let the flower fall,
     But held my hand afloat towards the slips
     Of blossom she fingered, and my fingers all
     Put forth to her: she did not move, nor I,
     For my hand like a snake watched hers, that could
         not fly.

     Then I laughed in the dark of my heart, I did exult
     Like a sudden chuckling of music. I bade her eyes
     Meet mine, I opened her helpless eyes to consult
     Their fear, their shame, their joy that underlies
     Defeat in such a battle. In the dark of her eyes
     My heart was fierce to make her laughter rise.

     Till her dark deeps shook with convulsive thrills, and
         the dark
     Of her spirit wavered like water thrilled with light;
     And my heart leaped up in longing to plunge its stark
     Fervour within the pool of her twilight,
     Within her spacious soul, to grope in delight.

     And I do not care, though the large hands of revenge
     Shall get my throat at last, shall get it soon,
     If the joy that they are searching to avenge
     Have risen red on my night as a harvest moon,
     Which even death can only put out for me;
     And death, I know, is better than not-to-be.

MOURNFULLY to and fro, to and fro the trees are
           waving;
        What did you say, my dear?     The rain-bruised leaves are suddenly shaken, as a
           child
     Asleep still shakes in the clutch of a sob—
        Yes, my love, I hear.
     One lonely bell, one only, the storm-tossed afternoon
           is braving,
        Why not let it ring?     The roses lean down when they hear it, the tender,
           mild
     Flowers of the bleeding-heart fall to the throb—
        It is such a little thing!
     A wet bird walks on the lawn, call to the boy to come
           and look,
        Yes, it is over now.     Call to him out of the silence, call him to see
     The starling shaking its head as it walks in the
           grass—
        Ah, who knows how?
     He cannot see it, I can never show it him, how it
           shook—
        Don't disturb him, darling.     —Its head as it walked: I can never call him to me,
     Never, he is not, whatever shall come to pass.
        No, look at the wet starling.

         I LOOK at the swaling sunset
         And wish I could go also
     Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.

         I wish that I could go
     Through the red doors where I could put off
         My shame like shoes in the porch,
         My pain like garments,
     And leave my flesh discarded lying
     Like luggage of some departed traveller
         Gone one knows not where.

         Then I would turn round,
     And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber,
         I would laugh with joy.

SINCE I lost you, my darling, the sky has come near,
     And I am of it, the small sharp stars are quite near,
     The white moon going among them like a white bird
         among snow-berries,
     And the sound of her gently rustling in heaven like
         a bird I hear.

     And I am willing to come to you now, my dear,
     As a pigeon lets itself off from a cathedral dome
     To be lost in the haze of the sky, I would like to
         come,
     And be lost out of sight with you, and be gone like
         foam.

     For I am tired, my dear, and if I could lift my feet,
     My tenacious feet from off the dome of the earth
     To fall like a breath within the breathing wind
     Where you are lost, what rest, my love, what rest!

WHEN you went, how was it you carried with you
     My missal book of fine, flamboyant hours?
     My book of turrets and of red-thorn bowers,
     And skies of gold, and ladies in bright tissue?

     Now underneath a blue-grey twilight, heaped
     Beyond the withering snow of the shorn fields
     Stands rubble of stunted houses; all is reaped
     And garnered that the golden daylight yields.

     Dim lamps like yellow poppies glimmer among
     The shadowy stubble of the under-dusk,
     As farther off the scythe of night is swung,
     And little stars come rolling from their husk.

     And all the earth is gone into a dust
     Of greyness mingled with a fume of gold,
     Covered with aged lichens, pale with must,
     And all the sky has withered and gone cold.

     And so I sit and scan the book of grey,
     Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading,
     All fearful lest I find the last words bleeding
     With wounds of sunset and the dying day.

THE darkness steals the forms of all the queens,
     But oh, the palms of his two black hands are red,
     Inflamed with binding up the sheaves of dead
     Hours that were once all glory and all queens.

     And I remember all the sunny hours
     Of queens in hyacinth and skies of gold,
     And morning singing where the woods are scrolled
     And diapered above the chaunting flowers.

     Here lamps are white like snowdrops in the grass;
     The town is like a churchyard, all so still
     And grey now night is here; nor will
     Another torn red sunset come to pass.

OUT of the darkness, fretted sometimes in its sleeping,
     Jets of sparks in fountains of blue come leaping
     To sight, revealing a secret, numberless secrets keeping.

     Sometimes the darkness trapped within a wheel
     Runs into speed like a dream, the blue of the steel
     Showing the rocking darkness now a-reel.

     And out of the invisible, streams of bright blue drops
     Rain from the showery heavens, and bright blue
         crops
     Surge from the under-dark to their ladder-tops.

     And all the manifold blue and joyous eyes,
     The rainbow arching over in the skies,
     New sparks of wonder opening in surprise.

     All these pure things come foam and spray of the sea
     Of Darkness abundant, which shaken mysteriously,
     Breaks into dazzle of living, as dolphins that leap
         from the sea
     Of midnight shake it to fire, so the secret of death
         we see.