Look! We Have Come Through!

     I HAVE been so innerly proud, and so long alone,
     Do not leave me, or I shall break.
     Do not leave me.

     What should I do if you were gone again
     So soon?
     What should I look for?
     Where should I go?
     What should I be, I myself,
     "I"?
     What would it mean, this
     I?

     Do not leave me.

     What should I think of death?
     If I died, it would not be you:
     It would be simply the same
     Lack of you.
     The same want, life or death,
     Unfulfilment,
     The same insanity of space
     You not there for me.

     Think, I daren't die
     For fear of the lack in death.
     And I daren't live.

     Unless there were a morphine or a drug.

     I would bear the pain.
     But always, strong, unremitting
     It would make me not me.
     The thing with my body that would go on
        living
     Would not be me.
     Neither life nor death could help.

     Think, I couldn't look towards death
     Nor towards the future:
     Only not look.
     Only myself
     Stand still and bind and blind myself.

     God, that I have no choice!
     That my own fulfilment is up against me
     Timelessly!
     The burden of self-accomplishment!
     The charge of fulfilment!
     And God, that she is necessary!     Necessary, and I have no choice!

     Do not leave me.

     A YOUNG WIFE
     THE pain of loving you
     Is almost more than I can bear.

     I walk in fear of you.
     The darkness starts up where
     You stand, and the night comes through
     Your eyes when you look at me.

     Ah never before did I see
     The shadows that live in the sun!

     Now every tall glad tree
     Turns round its back to the sun
     And looks down on the ground, to see
     The shadow it used to shun.

     At the foot of each glowing thing
     A night lies looking up.

     Oh, and I want to sing
     And dance, but I can't lift up
     My eyes from the shadows: dark
     They lie spilt round the cup.

     What is it?—Hark
     The faint fine seethe in the air!

     Like the seething sound in a shell!
     It is death still seething where
     The wild-flower shakes its bell
     And the sky lark twinkles blue—

     The pain of loving you
     Is almost more than I can bear.

     THE dawn was apple-green,
     The sky was green wine held up in the sun,
     The moon was a golden petal between.

     She opened her eyes, and green
     They shone, clear like flowers undone
     For the first time, now for the first time seen.

      ICKING

     BY the Isar, in the twilight
     We were wandering and singing,
     By the Isar, in the evening
     We climbed the huntsman's ladder and sat
        swinging
     In the fir-tree overlooking the marshes,
     While river met with river, and the ringing
     Of their pale-green glacier water filled the evening.

     By the Isar, in the twilight
     We found the dark wild roses
     Hanging red at the river; and simmering
     Frogs were singing, and over the river closes
     Was savour of ice and of roses; and glimmering
     Fear was abroad. We whispered: "No one
        knows us.
     Let it be as the snake disposes
     Here in this simmering marsh."

      KLOSTER SCHAEFTLARN

     WHEN she rises in the morning
     I linger to watch her;
     She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
     And the sunbeams catch her
     Glistening white on the shoulders,
     While down her sides the mellow
     Golden shadow glows as
     She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
     Sway like full-blown yellow
     Gloire de Dijon roses.

     She drips herself with water, and her shoulders
     Glisten as silver, they crumple up
     Like wet and falling roses, and I listen
     For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.
     In the window full of sunlight
     Concentrates her golden shadow
     Fold on fold, until it glows as
     Mellow as the glory roses.

      ICKING

ROSES ON THE BREAKFAST
     TABLE
     JUST a few of the roses we gathered from the Isar
     Are fallen, and their mauve-red petals on the
        cloth
     Float like boats on a river, while other
     Roses are ready to fall, reluctant and loth.

     She laughs at me across the table, saying
     I am beautiful. I look at the rumpled young roses
     And suddenly realise, in them as in me,
     How lovely the present is that this day discloses.

     I AM LIKE A ROSE
     I AM myself at last; now I achieve
     My very self. I, with the wonder mellow,
     Full of fine warmth, I issue forth in clear
     And single me, perfected from my fellow.

     Here I am all myself. No rose-bush heaving
     Its limpid sap to culmination, has brought
     Itself more sheer and naked out of the green
     In stark-clear roses, than I to myself am brought.

     I AM here myself; as though this heave of effort
     At starting other life, fulfilled my own:
     Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core
     Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown

     By all the blood of the rose-bush into being—
     Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set
     My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly
     To bring together two strange sparks, beget

     Another life from our lives, so should send
     The innermost fire of my own dim soul out-
        spinning
     And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon
        me!
     That my completion of manhood should be the
        beginning

     Another life from mine! For so it looks.
     The seed is purpose, blossom accident.
     The seed is all in all, the blossom lent
     To crown the triumph of this new descent.

     Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so?
     The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire
     Fans out your petals for excess of flame,
     Till all your being smokes with fine desire?

     Or are we kindled, you and I, to be
     One rose of wonderment upon the tree
     Of perfect life, and is our possible seed
     But the residuum of the ecstasy?

     How will you have it?—the rose is all in all,
     Or the ripe rose-fruits of the luscious fall?
     The sharp begetting, or the child begot?
     Our consummation matters, or does it not?

     To me it seems the seed is just left over
     From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience;
     Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the
        bush
     Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence.

     Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose
     Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose
     For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive;
     For me it is more than enough if the flower un-
        close.

     A YOUTH MOWING
     THERE are four men mowing down by the Isar;
     I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, four
     Sharp breaths taken: yea, and I
     Am sorry for what's in store.

     The first man out of the four that's mowing
     Is mine, I claim him once and for all;
     Though it's sorry I am, on his young feet, knowing
     None of the trouble he's led to stall.

     As he sees me bringing the dinner, he lifts
     His head as proud as a deer that looks
     Shoulder-deep out of the corn; and wipes
     His scythe-blade bright, unhooks

     The scythe-stone and over the stubble to me.
     Lad, thou hast gotten a child in me,
     Laddie, a man thou'lt ha'e to be,
     Yea, though I'm sorry for thee.

     WHAT pain, to wake and miss you!
       To wake with a tightened heart,
     And mouth reaching forward to kiss you!

     This then at last is the dawn, and the bell
       Clanging at the farm! Such bewilderment
     Comes with the sight of the room, I cannot tell.

     It is raining. Down the half-obscure road
       Four labourers pass with their scythes
     Dejectedly;—a huntsman goes by with his load:

     A gun, and a bunched-up deer, its four little feet
       Clustered dead.—And this is the dawn
     For which I wanted the night to retreat!

     THE house is silent, it is late at night, I am alone.
                    From the balcony
               I can hear the Isar moan,
                    Can see the white
     Rift of the river eerily, between the pines, under
               a sky of stone.

     Some fireflies drift through the middle air
                    Tinily.
               I wonder where
     Ends this darkness that annihilates me.

     She speaks.     Look at the little darlings in the corn!
        The rye is taller than you, who think yourself
     So high and mighty: look how the heads are
          borne
     Dark and proud on the sky, like a number of
          knights
     Passing with spears and pennants and manly scorn.

     Knights indeed!—much knight I know will ride
        With his head held high-serene against the sky!
     Limping and following rather at my side
        Moaning for me to love him!—Oh darling rye
     How I adore you for your simple pride!

     And the dear, dear fireflies wafting in between
        And over the swaying corn-stalks, just above
     All the dark-feathered helmets, like little green
        Stars come low and wandering here for love
     Of these dark knights, shedding their delicate
          sheen!

     I thank you I do, you happy creatures, you dears
        Riding the air, and carrying all the time
     Your little lanterns behind you! Ah, it cheers
        My soul to see you settling and trying to
          climb
     The corn-stalks, tipping with fire the spears.

     All over the dim corn's motion, against the blue
        Dark sky of night, a wandering glitter, a
          swarm
     Of questing brilliant souls going out with their
          true
        Proud knights to battle! Sweet, how I warm
     My poor, my perished soul with the sight of
          you!

     A DOE AT EVENING
     As I went through the marshes
     a doe sprang out of the corn
     and flashed up the hill-side
     leaving her fawn.

     On the sky-line
     she moved round to watch,
     she pricked a fine black blotch
     on the sky.

     I looked at her
     and felt her watching;
     I became a strange being.
     Still, I had my right to be there with her,

     Her nimble shadow trotting
     along the sky-line, she
     put back her fine, level-balanced head.
     And I knew her.

     Ah yes, being male, is not my head hard-balanced,
         antlered?
     Are not my haunches light?
     Has she not fled on the same wind with me?
     Does not my fear cover her fear?

      IRSCHENHAUSEN

SONG OF A MAN WHO IS
     NOT LOVED
     THE space of the world is immense, before me and
        around me;
     If I turn quickly, I am terrified, feeling space
        surround me;
     Like a man in a boat on very clear, deep water,
        space frightens and confounds me.

     I see myself isolated in the universe, and wonder
     What effect I can have. My hands wave under
     The heavens like specks of dust that are floating
        asunder.

     I hold myself up, and feel a big wind blowing
     Me like a gadfly into the dusk, without my know-
        ing
     Whither or why or even how I am going.

     So much there is outside me, so infinitely
     Small am I, what matter if minutely
     I beat my way, to be lost immediately?

     How shall I flatter myself that I can do
     Anything in such immensity? I am too
     Little to count in the wind that drifts me through.

      GLASHÜTTE

     THE big mountains sit still in the afternoon light
        Shadows in their lap;
     The bees roll round in the wild-thyme with de-
          light.

     We sitting here among the cranberries
        So still in the gap
     Of rock, distilling our memories

     Are sinners! Strange! The bee that blunders
        Against me goes off with a laugh.
     A squirrel cocks his head on the fence, and
          wonders

     What about sin?—For, it seems
        The mountains have
     No shadow of us on their snowy forehead of
          dreams

     As they ought to have. They rise above us
        Dreaming
     For ever. One even might think that they love us.

       Little red cranberries cheek to cheek,
        Two great dragon-flies wrestling;
        You, with your forehead nestling
        Against me, and bright peak shining to peak—
     There's a love-song for you!—Ah, if only
        There were no teeming
     Swarms of mankind in the world, and we were
          less lonely!

      MAYRHOFEN

     OUT of this oubliette between the mountains
     five valleys go, five passes like gates;
     three of them black in shadow, two of them bright
     with distant sunshine;
     and sunshine fills one high valley bed,
     green grass shining, and little white houses
     like quartz crystals,
     little, but distinct a way off.

     Why don't I go?
     Why do I crawl about this pot, this oubliette,
     stupidly?
     Why don't I go?

     But where?
     If I come to a pine-wood, I can't say
     Now I am arrived!
     What are so many straight trees to me!

      STERZING

SUNDAY AFTERNOON IN
     ITALY
     THE man and the maid go side by side
     With an interval of space between;
     And his hands are awkward and want to hide,
     She braves it out since she must be seen.

     When some one passes he drops his head
     Shading his face in his black felt hat,
     While the hard girl hardens; nothing is said,
     There is nothing to wonder or cavil at.

     Alone on the open road again
     With the mountain snows across the lake
     Flushing the afternoon, they are uncomfortable,
     The loneliness daunts them, their stiff throats
        ache.

     And he sighs with relief when she parts from him;
     Her proud head held in its black silk scarf
     Gone under the archway, home, he can join
     The men that lounge in a group on the wharf.

     His evening is a flame of wine
     Among the eager, cordial men.
     And she with her women hot and hard
     Moves at her ease again.

      She is marked, she is singled out
           For the fire:
       The brand is upon him, look—you,
           Of desire.

       They are chosen, ah, they are fated
           For the fight!
       Champion her, all you women! Men, menfolk
           Hold him your light!

       Nourish her, train her, harden her
           Women all!
       Fold him, be good to him, cherish him
           Men, ere he fall.

       Women, another champion!
           This, men, is yours!
       Wreathe and enlap and anoint them
           Behind separate doors.
      GARGNANO

     GREEN star Sirius
     Dribbling over the lake;
     The stars have gone so far on their road,
     Yet we're awake!

     Without a sound
     The new young year comes in
     And is half-way over the lake.
     We must begin

     Again. This love so full
     Of hate has hurt us so,
     We lie side by side
     Moored—but no,

     Let me get up
     And wash quite clean
     Of this hate.—
     So green

     The great star goes!
     I am washed quite clean,
     Quite clean of it all.
     But e'en

     So cold, so cold and clean
     Now the hate is gone!
     It is all no good,
     I am chilled to the bone

     Now the hate is gone;
     There is nothing left;
     I am pure like bone,
     Of all feeling bereft.

     A BAD BEGINNING
     THE yellow sun steps over the mountain-top
     And falters a few short steps across the lake—
     Are you awake?

     See, glittering on the milk-blue, morning lake
     They are laying the golden racing-track of the
        sun;
     The day has begun.

     The sun is in my eyes, I must get up.
     I want to go, there's a gold road blazes before
     My breast—which is so sore.

     What?—your throat is bruised, bruised with my
        kisses?
     Ah, but if I am cruel what then are you?
     I am bruised right through.

     What if I love you!—This misery
     Of your dissatisfaction and misprision
     Stupefies me.

     Ah yes, your open arms! Ah yes, ah yes,
     You would take me to your breast!—But no,
     You should come to mine,
     It were better so.

     Here I am—get up and come to me!
     Not as a visitor either, nor a sweet
     And winsome child of innocence; nor
     As an insolent mistress telling my pulse's beat.

     Come to me like a woman coming home
     To the man who is her husband, all the rest
     Subordinate to this, that he and she
     Are joined together for ever, as is best.

     Behind me on the lake I hear the steamer drum-
        ming
     From Austria. There lies the world, and here
     Am I. Which way are you coming?

     HUSH then
     why do you cry?
     It's you and me
     the same as before.

     If you hear a rustle
     it's only a rabbit
     gone back to his hole
     in a bustle.

     If something stirs in the branches
     overhead, it will be a squirrel moving
     uneasily, disturbed by the stress
     of our loving.

     Why should you cry then?
     Are you afraid of God
     in the dark?

     I'm not afraid of God.
     Let him come forth.
     If he is hiding in the cover
     let him come forth.

     Now in the cool of the day
     it is we who walk in the trees
     and call to God "Where art thou?"
     And it is he who hides.

     Why do you cry?
     My heart is bitter.
     Let God come forth to justify
     himself now.

     Why do you cry?
     Is it Wehmut, ist dir weh?
     Weep then, yea
     for the abomination of our old righteousness,

     We have done wrong
     many times;
     but this time we begin to do right.

     Weep then, weep
     for the abomination of our past righteousness.
     God will keep
     hidden, he won't come forth.

     ALONG the avenue of cypresses
     All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices
     Of linen go the chanting choristers,
     The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .

     And all along the path to the cemetery
     The round dark heads of men crowd silently,
     And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully
     Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

     And at the foot of a grave a father stands
     With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
     And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels
     With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels

     The coming of the chanting choristers
     Between the avenue of cypresses,
     The silence of the many villagers,
     The candle-flames beside the surplices.

     THEY are chanting now the service of All the Dead
     And the village folk outside in the burying ground
     Listen—except those who strive with their dead,
     Reaching out in anguish, yet unable quite to
         touch them:
     Those villagers isolated at the grave
     Where the candles burn in the daylight, and the
         painted wreaths
     Are propped on end, there, where the mystery
         starts.

     The naked candles burn on every grave.
     On your grave, in England, the weeds grow.

     But I am your naked candle burning,
     And that is not your grave, in England,
     The world is your grave.
     And my naked body standing on your grave
     Upright towards heaven is burning off to you
     Its flame of life, now and always, till the end.

     It is my offering to you; every day is All Souls'
         Day.

     I forget you, have forgotten you.
     I am busy only at my burning,
     I am busy only at my life.
     But my feet are on your grave, planted.
     And when I lift my face, it is a flame that goes up
     To the other world, where you are now.
     But I am not concerned with you.
         I have forgotten you.

     I am a naked candle burning on your grave.

     AH yes, I know you well, a sojourner
         At the hearth;
     I know right well the marriage ring you wear,
         And what it's worth.

     The angels came to Abraham, and they stayed
         In his house awhile;
     So you to mine, I imagine; yes, happily
         Condescend to be vile.

     I see you all the time, you bird-blithe, lovely
         Angel in disguise.
     I see right well how I ought to be grateful,
         Smitten with reverent surprise.

     Listen, I have no use
         For so rare a visit;
     Mine is a common devil's
         Requisite.

     Rise up and go, I have no use for you
         And your blithe, glad mien.
     No angels here, for me no goddesses,
         Nor any Queen.

     Put ashes on your head, put sackcloth on
         And learn to serve.
     You have fed me with your sweetness, now I am sick,
         As I deserve.

     Queens, ladies, angels, women rare,
         I have had enough.
     Put sackcloth on, be crowned with powdery ash,
         Be common stuff.

     And serve now woman, serve, as a woman should,
         Implicitly.
     Since I must serve and struggle with the imminent
         Mystery.

     Serve then, I tell you, add your strength to mine
         Take on this doom.
     What are you by yourself, do you think, and what
         The mere fruit of your womb?

     What is the fruit of your womb then, you mother,
           you queen,
         When it falls to the ground?
     Is it more than the apples of Sodom you scorn so,
           the men
        Who abound?

     Bring forth the sons of your womb then, and put
           them
         Into the fire
     Of Sodom that covers the earth; bring them forth
         From the womb of your precious desire.

     You woman most holy, you mother, you being
           beyond
         Question or diminution,
     Add yourself up, and your seed, to the nought
         Of your last solution.

     AND because you love me
     think you you do not hate me?
     Ha, since you love me
     to ecstasy
     it follows you hate me to ecstasy.

     Because when you hear me
     go down the road outside the house
     you must come to the window to watch me go,
     do you think it is pure worship?

     Because, when I sit in the room,
     here, in my own house,
     and you want to enlarge yourself with this friend of
         mine,
     such a friend as he is,
     yet you cannot get beyond your awareness of me
     you are held back by my being in the same world
         with you,
     do you think it is bliss alone?
     sheer harmony?

     No doubt if I were dead, you must
     reach into death after me,
     but would not your hate reach even more madly
         than your love?
     your impassioned, unfinished hate?

     Since you have a passion for me,
     as I for you,
     does not that passion stand in your way like a
         Balaam's ass?
     and am I not Balaam's ass
     golden-mouthed occasionally?
     But mostly, do you not detest my bray?

     Since you are confined in the orbit of me
     do you not loathe the confinement?
     Is not even the beauty and peace of an orbit
     an intolerable prison to you,
     as it is to everybody?

     But we will learn to submit
     each of us to the balanced, eternal orbit
     wherein we circle on our fate
     in strange conjunction.

     What is chaos, my love?
     It is not freedom.
     A disarray of falling stars coming to nought.

     PLEASE yourself how you have it.
     Take my words, and fling
     Them down on the counter roundly;
     See if they ring.

     Sift my looks and expressions,
     And see what proportion there is
     Of sand in my doubtful sugar
     Of verities.

     Have a real stock-taking
     Of my manly breast;
     Find out if I'm sound or bankrupt,
     Or a poor thing at best.

     For I am quite indifferent
     To your dubious state,
     As to whether you've found a fortune
     In me, or a flea-bitten fate.

     Make a good investigation
     Of all that is there,
     And then, if it's worth it, be grateful—
     If not then despair.

     If despair is our portion
     Then let us despair.
     Let us make for the weeping willow.
     I don't care.

     TAKE off your cloak and your hat
     And your shoes, and draw up at my hearth
     Where never woman sat.

     I have made the fire up bright;
     Let us leave the rest in the dark
     And sit by firelight.

     The wine is warm in the hearth;
     The flickers come and go.
     I will warm your feet with kisses
     Until they glow.

     THERE are only two things now,
     The great black night scooped out
     And this fire-glow.

     This fire-glow, the core,
     And we the two ripe pips
     That are held in store.

     Listen, the darkness rings
     As it circulates round our fire.
     Take off your things.

     Your shoulders, your bruised throat
     Your breasts, your nakedness!
     This fiery coat!

     As the darkness flickers and dips,
     As the firelight falls and leaps
     From your feet to your lips!

     Now you are mine, to-night at last I say it;
     You're a dove I have bought for sacrifice,
     And to-night I slay it.

     Here in my arms my naked sacrifice!
     Death, do you hear, in my arms I am bringing
     My offering, bought at great price.

     She's a silvery dove worth more than all I've got.
     Now I offer her up to the ancient, inexorable God,
     Who knows me not.

     Look, she's a wonderful dove, without blemish or
        spot!
     I sacrifice all in her, my last of the world,
     Pride, strength, all the lot.

     All, all on the altar! And death swooping down
     Like a falcon. 'Tis God has taken the victim;
     I have won my renown.

     You shadow and flame,
     You interchange,
     You death in the game!

     Now I gather you up,
     Now I put you back
     Like a poppy in its cup.

     And so, you are a maid
     Again, my darling, but new,
     Unafraid.

     My love, my blossom, a child
     Almost! The flower in the bud
     Again, undefiled.

     And yet, a woman, knowing
     All, good, evil, both
     In one blossom blowing.

     THIS fireglow is a red womb
     In the night, where you're folded up
     On your doom.

     And the ugly, brutal years
     Are dissolving out of you,
     And the stagnant tears.

     I the great vein that leads
     From the night to the source of you,
     Which the sweet blood feeds.

     New phase in the germ of you;
     New sunny streams of blood
     Washing you through.

     You are born again of me.
     I, Adam, from the veins of me
     The Eve that is to be.

     What has been long ago
     Grows dimmer, we both forget,
     We no longer know.

     You are lovely, your face is soft
     Like a flower in bud
     On a mountain croft.

     This is Noël for me.
     To-night is a woman born
     Of the man in me.

     WHY do you spurt and sprottle
     like that, bunny?
     Why should I want to throttle
     you, bunny?

     Yes, bunch yourself between
     my knees and lie still.
     Lie on me with a hot, plumb, live weight,
     heavy as a stone, passive,
     yet hot, waiting.

     What are you waiting for?
     What are you waiting for?
     What is the hot, plumb weight of your desire on
         me?
     You have a hot, unthinkable desire of me, bunny.

     What is that spark
     glittering at me on the unutterable darkness
     of your eye, bunny?
     The finest splinter of a spark
     that you throw off, straight on the tinder of my
         nerves!

     It sets up a strange fire,
     a soft, most unwarrantable burning
     a bale-fire mounting, mounting up in me.

     'Tis not of me, bunny.
     It was you engendered it,
     with that fine, demoniacal spark
     you jetted off your eye at me.

     I did not want it,
     this furnace, this draught-maddened fire
     which mounts up my arms
     making them swell with turgid, ungovernable
         strength.

     'Twas not I that wished it,
     that my fingers should turn into these flames
     avid and terrible
     that they are at this moment.

     It must have been your inbreathing, gaping desire
     that drew this red gush in me;
     I must be reciprocating your vacuous, hideous
         passion.

     It must be the want in you
     that has drawn this terrible draught of white fire
     up my veins as up a chimney.

     It must be you who desire
     this intermingling of the black and monstrous
         fingers of Moloch
     in the blood-jets of your throat.

     Come, you shall have your desire,
     since already I am implicated with you
     in your strange lust.

     THROUGH the strait gate of passion,
     Between the bickering fire
     Where flames of fierce love tremble
     On the body of fierce desire:

     To the intoxication,
     The mind, fused down like a bead,
     Flees in its agitation
     The flames' stiff speed:

     At last to calm incandescence,
     Burned clean by remorseless hate,
     Now, at the day's renascence
     We approach the gate.

     Now, from the darkened spaces
     Of fear, and of frightened faces,
     Death, in our awful embraces
     Approached and passed by;

     We near the flame-burnt porches
     Where the brands of the angels, like torches
     Whirl,—in these perilous marches
     Pausing to sigh;

     We look back on the withering roses,
     The stars, in their sun-dimmed closes,
     Where 'twas given us to repose us
     Sure on our sanctity;

     Beautiful, candid lovers,
     Burnt out of our earthy covers,
     We might have nestled like plovers
     In the fields of eternity.

     There, sure in sinless being,
     All-seen, and then all-seeing,
     In us life unto death agreeing,
     We might have lain.

     But we storm the angel-guarded
     Gates of the long-discarded,
     Garden, which God has hoarded
     Against our pain.

     The Lord of Hosts, and the Devil
     Are left on Eternity's level
     Field, and as victors we travel
     To Eden home.

     Back beyond good and evil
     Return we. Eve dishevel
     Your hair for the bliss-drenched revel
     On our primal loam.

     AH, through the open door
     Is there an almond tree
     Aflame with blossom!
        —Let us fight no more.

     Among the pink and blue
     Of the sky and the almond flowers
     A sparrow flutters.
        —We have come through,

     It is really spring!—See,
     When he thinks himself alone
     How he bullies the flowers.
        —Ah, you and me

     How happy we'll be!—See him
     He clouts the tufts of flowers
     In his impudence.
        —But, did you dream

     It would be so bitter? Never mind
     It is finished, the spring is here.
     And we're going to be summer-happy
        And summer-kind.

     We have died, we have slain and been slain,
     We are not our old selves any more.
     I feel new and eager
        To start again.

     It is gorgeous to live and forget.
     And to feel quite new.
     See the bird in the flowers?—he's making
        A rare to-do!

     He thinks the whole blue sky
     Is much less than the bit of blue egg
     He's got in his nest—we'll be happy
        You and I, I and you.

     With nothing to fight any more—
     In each other, at least.
     See, how gorgeous the world is
        Outside the door!

      SAN GAUDENZIO