GRAND LARCENY
What have you done to me,
You, of the Helen-touch?
You with the noon-bright hair
And the voice like streams?
Day has become a cloud!
Season and order such
Shapes as a wizard air
Weaves out of dreams!
I was glad ere you came;
Now I have great unease.
You who have stol’n my soul
As you’d pluck a leaf!
Starved and wind-bitten oak,
Yours the Hesperides!
—Satan consume you whole,
Beautiful Thief!
Where have you locked it up?
Drowned it in colored pools
With your moods’ goldfish or
Swathed it in words?
It should go raggedly,
Hard from the scorn of fools!
Whippings may hurt it sore!
Where are its birds?
What—you will give it back?
Flowery your footpath then!
Songs of your grace I’ll sing
Sleepier than bees!
Hasten, oh wind-beloved!
Grant me my own again!
—What is this shining thing,
Under the trees?—
Tremulous, lucentine,
Sun-wave or heart of star—
What is this magic you
Proffer for mine?
—Closer the wonder draws—
(Those are your eyes!) But are
All paradises true
Then, oh Divine...?
You should have taken gold
For your soul’s treasury!
Not this poor kettle,
Clay to all spears.
Isn’t gold heavy, though!—
We shall rust airily!
Heavenly metal!
Years upon years!