Sword Blades and Poppy Seed

   He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums.  He is beating
   his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse.  She sits
   on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap.  And tap!  She cracks a nut.
   And tap!  Another.  Tap!  Tap!  Tap!  The shells ricochet upon the roof,
   and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear.

   "It is very queer," thinks Peter, "the basket was empty, I'm sure.
   How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?"

   The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof glitters
   like ice.

       II

   Five o'clock.  The geraniums are very gay in their crimson array.
   The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs goes Peter
   to pay his morning's work with a holiday.

   "Annette, it is I.  Have you finished?  Can I come?"

   Peter jumps through the window.

   "Dear, are you alone?"

   "Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done.  This gold thread
   is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have
   seen me bankrupt.  Sit down, now tell me, is your story going well?"

   The golden dome glittered in the orange of the setting sun.  On the walls,
   at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles,
   and coffin palls.  All stiff with rich embroidery, and stitched with
   so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds
   new-opened on their stems.

   Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky.

   "No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread of such a red.
   My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison.  Heigh-ho!  See my little
   pecking dove?  I'm in love with my own temple.  Only that halo's wrong.
   The colour's too strong, or not strong enough.  I don't know.  My eyes
   are tired.  Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable.  I won't do
   any more.  I promise.  You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough.  Now sit down
   and amuse me while I rest."

   The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climb
   the opposite wall.

   Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting,
   and undulant in the orange glow.  His senses flow towards her,
   where she lies supine and dreaming.  Seeming drowned in a golden halo.

   The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear.

   He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands.
   His lips are hot and speechless.  He woos her, quivering, and the room
   is filled with shadows, for the sun has set.  But she only understands
   the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colour
   on another.  She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurs
   his name.

   "Peter, I don't want it.  I am tired."

   And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed.

   There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky.

       III

   "Go home, now, Peter.  To-night is full moon.  I must be alone."

   "How soon the moon is full again!  Annette, let me stay.  Indeed, Dear Love,
   I shall not go away.  My God, but you keep me starved!  You write
   `No Entrance Here', over all the doors.  Is it not strange, my Dear,
   that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere.  Would marriage
   strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied
   the rights of loving if I leave you free?  You want the whole of me,
   you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat.
   Oh, forgive me, Sweet!  I suffer in my loving, and you know it.  I cannot
   feed my life on being a poet.  Let me stay."

   "As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me if you do.  It will
   crush your heart and squeeze the love out."

   He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about."

   "Only remember one thing from to-night.  My work is taxing and I must
   have sight!  I must!"

   The clear moon looks in between the geraniums.  On the wall,
   the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman
   by a silver thread.

   They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles!  Unwinking, for there
   are no lids.  Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises are cased
   in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon.  The basket
   is heaped with human eyes.  She cracks off the whites and throws them away.
   They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce
   over the edge and disappear.  But she is here, quietly sitting
   on the window-sill, eating human eyes.

   The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof shines
   like ice.

       IV

   How hot the sheets are!  His skin is tormented with pricks,
   and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye.  It lights the sky with blood,
   and drips blood.  And the drops sizzle on his bare skin, and he smells them
   burning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette".

   The blood-red sky is outside his window now.  Is it blood or fire?
   Merciful God!  Fire!  And his heart wrenches and pounds "Annette!"

   The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets, gets to the edge,
   bounces over and disappears.

   The bellying clouds are red as they swing over the housetops.

       V

   The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.
   How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice!  Only two black holes swallow
   the brilliance of the moon.  Deflowered windows, sockets without sight.

   A man stands before the house.  He sees the silver-blue moonlight,
   and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium red.

   Annette!

       I

   Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog.  Drip—hiss—drip—hiss—
   fall the raindrops on the oaken log which burns, and steams,
   and smokes the ceiling beams.  Drip—hiss—the rain never stops.

   The wide, state bed shivers beneath its velvet coverlet.  Above, dim,
   in the smoke, a tarnished coronet gleams dully.  Overhead hammers and chinks
   the rain.  Fearfully wails the wind down distant corridors, and there comes
   the swish and sigh of rushes lifted off the floors.  The arras blows sidewise
   out from the wall, and then falls back again.

   It is my lady's key, confided with much nice cunning, whisperingly.
   He enters on a sob of wind, which gutters the candles almost to swaling.
   The fire flutters and drops.  Drip—hiss—the rain never stops.
   He shuts the door.  The rushes fall again to stillness along the floor.
   Outside, the wind goes wailing.

   The velvet coverlet of the wide bed is smooth and cold.  Above,
   in the firelight, winks the coronet of tarnished gold.  The knight shivers
   in his coat of fur, and holds out his hands to the withering flame.
   She is always the same, a sweet coquette.  He will wait for her.

   How the log hisses and drips!  How warm and satisfying will be her lips!

   It is wide and cold, the state bed; but when her head lies under the coronet,
   and her eyes are full and wet with love, and when she holds out her arms,
   and the velvet counterpane half slips from her, and alarms
   her trembling modesty, how eagerly he will leap to cover her, and blot himself
   beneath the quilt, making her laugh and tremble.

   Is it guilt to free a lady from her palsied lord, absent and fighting,
   terribly abhorred?

   He stirs a booted heel and kicks a rolling coal.  His spur clinks
   on the hearth.  Overhead, the rain hammers and chinks.  She is so pure
   and whole.  Only because he has her soul will she resign herself to him,
   for where the soul has gone, the body must be given as a sign.  He takes her
   by the divine right of the only lover.  He has sworn to fight her lord,
   and wed her after.  Should he be overborne, she will die adoring him, forlorn,
   shriven by her great love.

   Above, the coronet winks in the darkness.  Drip—hiss—fall the raindrops.
   The arras blows out from the wall, and a door bangs in a far-off hall.

   The candles swale.  In the gale the moat below plunges and spatters.
   Will the lady lose courage and not come?

   The rain claps on a loosened rafter.

   Is that laughter?

   The room is filled with lisps and whispers.  Something mutters.
   One candle drowns and the other gutters.  Is that the rain
   which pads and patters, is it the wind through the winding entries
   which chatters?

   The state bed is very cold and he is alone.  How far from the wall
   the arras is blown!

   Christ's Death!  It is no storm which makes these little chuckling sounds.
   By the Great Wounds of Holy Jesus, it is his dear lady, kissing and
   clasping someone!  Through the sobbing storm he hears her love take form
   and flutter out in words.  They prick into his ears and stun his desire,
   which lies within him, hard and dead, like frozen fire.  And the little noise
   never stops.

   Drip—hiss—the rain drops.

   He tears down the arras from before an inner chamber's bolted door.

       II

   The state bed shivers in the watery dawn.  Drip—hiss—fall the raindrops.
   For the storm never stops.

   On the velvet coverlet lie two bodies, stripped and fair in the cold,
   grey air.  Drip—hiss—fall the blood-drops, for the bleeding never stops.
   The bodies lie quietly.  At each side of the bed, on the floor, is a head.
   A man's on this side, a woman's on that, and the red blood oozes along
   the rush mat.

   A wisp of paper is twisted carefully into the strands of the dead man's hair.
   It says, "My Lord:  Your wife's paramour has paid with his life
   for the high favour."

   Through the lady's silver fillet is wound another paper.  It reads,
   "Most noble Lord:  Your wife's misdeeds are as a double-stranded
   necklace of beads.  But I have engaged that, on your return,
   she shall welcome you here.  She will not spurn your love as before,
   you have still the best part of her.  Her blood was red, her body white,
   they will both be here for your delight.  The soul inside was a lump of dirt,
   I have rid you of that with a spurt of my sword point.  Good luck
   to your pleasure.  She will be quite complaisant, my friend, I wager."
   The end was a splashed flourish of ink.

   Hark!  In the passage is heard the clink of armour, the tread of a heavy man.
   The door bursts open and standing there, his thin hair wavering
   in the glare of steely daylight, is my Lord of Clair.

   Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog.  Drip—hiss—drip—hiss—
   fall the raindrops.  Overhead hammers and chinks the rain which never stops.

   The velvet coverlet is sodden and wet, yet the roof beams are tight.
   Overhead, the coronet gleams with its blackened gold, winking and blinking.
   Among the rushes three corpses are growing cold.

       III

   In the castle church you may see them stand,
   Two sumptuous tombs on either hand
   Of the choir, my Lord's and my Lady's, grand
   In sculptured filigrees.  And where the transepts of the church expand,
   A crusader, come from the Holy Land,
   Lies with crossed legs and embroidered band.
   The page's name became a brand
   For shame.  He was buried in crawling sand,
   After having been burnt by royal command.

   The Bell in the convent tower swung.
   High overhead the great sun hung,
   A navel for the curving sky.
   The air was a blue clarity.
       Swallows flew,
       And a cock crew.

   The iron clanging sank through the light air,
   Rustled over with blowing branches.  A flare
   Of spotted green, and a snake had gone
   Into the bed where the snowdrops shone
       In green new-started,
       Their white bells parted.

   Two by two, in a long brown line,
   The nuns were walking to breathe the fine
   Bright April air.  They must go in soon
   And work at their tasks all the afternoon.
       But this time is theirs!
       They walk in pairs.

   First comes the Abbess, preoccupied
   And slow, as a woman often tried,
   With her temper in bond.  Then the oldest nun.
   Then younger and younger, until the last one
       Has a laugh on her lips,
       And fairly skips.

   They wind about the gravel walks
   And all the long line buzzes and talks.
   They step in time to the ringing bell,
   With scarcely a shadow.  The sun is well
       In the core of a sky
       Domed silverly.

   Sister Marguerite said:  "The pears will soon bud."
   Sister Angelique said she must get her spud
   And free the earth round the jasmine roots.
   Sister Veronique said:  "Oh, look at those shoots!
       There's a crocus up,
       With a purple cup."

   But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all,
   She looked up and down the old grey wall
   To see if a lizard were basking there.
   She looked across the garden to where
       A sycamore
       Flanked the garden door.

   She was restless, although her little feet danced,
   And quite unsatisfied, for it chanced
   Her morning's work had hung in her mind
   And would not take form.  She could not find
       The beautifulness
       For the Virgin's dress.

   Should it be of pink, or damasked blue?
   Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through?
   Should it be banded with yellow and white
   Roses, or sparked like a frosty night?
       Or a crimson sheen
       Over some sort of green?

   But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new
   In all the garden, no single hue
   So lovely or so marvellous
   That its use would not seem impious.
       So on she walked,
       And the others talked.

   Sister Elisabeth edged away
   From what her companion had to say,
   For Sister Marthe saw the world in little,
   She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle.
       She did plain stitching
       And worked in the kitchen.

   "Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last,
   I told her so this Friday past.
   I must speak to her before Compline."
   Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine.
       The other nun sighed,
       With her pleasure quite dried.

   Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out:
   "The snowdrops are blooming!"  They turned about.
   The little white cups bent over the ground,
   And in among the light stems wound
       A crested snake,
       With his eyes awake.

   His body was green with a metal brightness
   Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness,
   And all down his curling length were disks,
   Evil vermilion asterisks,
       They paled and flooded
       As wounds fresh-blooded.

   His crest was amber glittered with blue,
   And opaque so the sun came shining through.
   It seemed a crown with fiery points.
   When he quivered all down his scaly joints,
       From every slot
       The sparkles shot.

   The nuns huddled tightly together, fear
   Catching their senses.  But Clotilde must peer
   More closely at the beautiful snake,
   She seemed entranced and eased.  Could she make
       Colours so rare,
       The dress were there.

   The Abbess shook off her lethargy.
   "Sisters, we will walk on," said she.
   Sidling away from the snowdrop bed,
   The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead.
       Only Clotilde
       Was the last to yield.

   When the recreation hour was done
   Each went in to her task.  Alone
   In the library, with its great north light,
   Clotilde wrought at an exquisite
       Wreath of flowers
       For her Book of Hours.

   She twined the little crocus blooms
   With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms
   Of laurel leaves were interwoven
   With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven
       Fritillaries,
       Whose colour varies.

   They framed the picture she had made,
   Half-delighted and half-afraid.
   In a courtyard with a lozenged floor
   The Virgin watched, and through the arched door
       The angel came
       Like a springing flame.

   His wings were dipped in violet fire,
   His limbs were strung to holy desire.
   He lowered his head and passed under the arch,
   And the air seemed beating a solemn march.
       The Virgin waited
       With eyes dilated.

   Her face was quiet and innocent,
   And beautiful with her strange assent.
   A silver thread about her head
   Her halo was poised.  But in the stead
       Of her gown, there remained
       The vellum, unstained.

   Clotilde painted the flowers patiently,
   Lingering over each tint and dye.
   She could spend great pains, now she had seen
   That curious, unimagined green.
       A colour so strange
       It had seemed to change.

   She thought it had altered while she gazed.
   At first it had been simple green; then glazed
   All over with twisting flames, each spot
   A molten colour, trembling and hot,
       And every eye
       Seemed to liquefy.

   She had made a plan, and her spirits danced.
   After all, she had only glanced
   At that wonderful snake, and she must know
   Just what hues made the creature throw
       Those splashes and sprays
       Of prismed rays.

   When evening prayers were sung and said,
   The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed.
   And soon in the convent there was no light,
   For the moon did not rise until late that night,
       Only the shine
       Of the lamp at the shrine.

   Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets.
   Her heart shook her body with its beats.
   She could not see till the moon should rise,
   So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes
       On the window-square
       Till light should be there.

   The faintest shadow of a branch
   Fell on the floor.  Clotilde, grown staunch
   With solemn purpose, softly rose
   And fluttered down between the rows
       Of sleeping nuns.
       She almost runs.

   She must go out through the little side door
   Lest the nuns who were always praying before
   The Virgin's altar should hear her pass.
   She pushed the bolts, and over the grass
       The red moon's brim
       Mounted its rim.

   Her shadow crept up the convent wall
   As she swiftly left it, over all
   The garden lay the level glow
   Of a moon coming up, very big and slow.
       The gravel glistened.
       She stopped and listened.

   It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer.
   She laughed a little, but she felt queerer
   Than ever before.  The snowdrop bed
   Was reached and she bent down her head.
       On the striped ground
       The snake was wound.

   For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm,
   Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm.
   She thought she heard steps, she must be quick.
   She darted her hand out, and seized the thick
       Wriggling slime,
       Only just in time.

   The old gardener came muttering down the path,
   And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath,
   And covered Clotilde and the angry snake.
   He bit her, but what difference did that make!
       The Virgin should dress
       In his loveliness.

   The gardener was covering his new-set plants
   For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts
   Your lover of growing things.  He spied
   Something to do and turned aside,
       And the moonlight streamed
       On Clotilde, and gleamed.

   His business finished the gardener rose.
   He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows
   A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she
   Grasping him, laughing, while quietly
       Her eyes are weeping.
       Is he sleeping?

   He thinks it is some holy vision,
   Brushes that aside and with decision
   Jumps—and hits the snake with his stick,
   Crushes his spine, and then with quick,
       Urgent command
       Takes her hand.

   The gardener sucks the poison and spits,
   Cursing and praying as befits
   A poor old man half out of his wits.
   "Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's
       Hatched of a devil
       And very evil.

   It's one of them horrid basilisks
   You read about.  They say a man risks
   His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it
   Out by now.  Lucky I chucked it
       Away from you.
       I guess you'll do."

   "Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast
   Was sent to me, to me the least
   Worthy in all our convent, so I
   Could finish my picture of the Most High
       And Holy Queen,
       In her dress of green.

   He is dead now, but his colours won't fade
   At once, and by noon I shall have made
   The Virgin's robe.  Oh, Francois, see
   How kindly the moon shines down on me!
       I can't die yet,
       For the task was set."

   "You won't die now, for I've sucked it away,"
   Grumbled old Francois, "so have your play.
   If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong,—"
   "Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong."
       So Clotilde vented
       Her creed.  He repented.

   "He can't do no more harm, Sister," said he.
   "Paint as much as you like."  And gingerly
   He picked up the snake with his stick.  Clotilde
   Thanked him, and begged that he would shield
       Her secret, though itching
       To talk in the kitchen.

   The gardener promised, not very pleased,
   And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased,
   Walked quickly home, while the half-high moon
   Made her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soon
       In her bed she lay
       And waited for day.

   At dawn's first saffron-spired warning
   Clotilde was up.  And all that morning,
   Except when she went to the chapel to pray,
   She painted, and when the April day
       Was hot with sun,
       Clotilde had done.

   Done!  She drooped, though her heart beat loud
   At the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed
   To the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made.
   A lady, in excellence arrayed,
       And wonder-souled.
       Christ's Blessed Mould!

   From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint,
   But her eyes were starred like those of a saint
   Enmeshed in Heaven's beatitude.
   A sudden clamour hurled its rude
       Force to break
       Her vision awake.

   The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed
   By the multitude of nuns.  They hushed
   When they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet,
   Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot.
       And all the hive
       Buzzed "She's alive!"

   Old Francois had told.  He had found the strain
   Of silence too great, and preferred the pain
   Of a conscience outraged.  The news had spread,
   And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead.
       For Francois, to spite them,
       Had not seen fit to right them.

   The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild,
   Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, "My child,
   Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace,
   To spare you while you imaged her face?
       How could we have guessed
       Our convent so blessed!

   A miracle!  But Oh!  My Lamb!
   To have you die!  And I, who am
   A hollow, living shell, the grave
   Is empty of me.  Holy Mary, I crave
       To be taken, Dear Mother,
       Instead of this other."

   She dropped on her knees and silently prayed,
   With anguished hands and tears delayed
   To a painful slowness.  The minutes drew
   To fractions.  Then the west wind blew
       The sound of a bell,
       On a gusty swell.

   It came skipping over the slates of the roof,
   And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof
   To grief, in the eye of so fair a day.
   The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray.
       And the sun lit the flowers
       In Clotilde's Book of Hours.

   It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress
   And made the red spots, in a flushed excess,
   Pulse and start; and the violet wings
   Of the angel were colour which shines and sings.
       The book seemed a choir
       Of rainbow fire.

   The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun
   Did the same, then one by one,
   They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers
   Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs.
       Clotilde, the Inspired!

       She only felt tired.

   The old chronicles say she did not die
   Until heavy with years.  And that is why
   There hangs in the convent church a basket
   Of osiered silver, a holy casket,
       And treasured therein
       A dried snake-skin.

   Panels of claret and blue which shine
   Under the moon like lees of wine.
   A coronet done in a golden scroll,
   And wheels which blunder and creak as they roll
   Through the muddy ruts of a moorland track.
       They daren't look back!

   They are whipping and cursing the horses.  Lord!
   What brutes men are when they think they're scored.
   Behind, my bay gelding gallops with me,
   In a steaming sweat, it is fine to see
   That coach, all claret, and gold, and blue,
       Hop about and slue.

   They are scared half out of their wits, poor souls.
   For my lord has a casket full of rolls
   Of minted sovereigns, and silver bars.
   I laugh to think how he'll show his scars
   In London to-morrow.  He whines with rage
       In his varnished cage.

   My lady has shoved her rings over her toes.
   'Tis an ancient trick every night-rider knows.
   But I shall relieve her of them yet,
   When I see she limps in the minuet
   I must beg to celebrate this night,
       And the green moonlight.

   There's nothing to hurry about, the plain
   Is hours long, and the mud's a strain.
   My gelding's uncommonly strong in the loins,
   In half an hour I'll bag the coins.
   'Tis a clear, sweet night on the turn of Spring.
       The chase is the thing!

   How the coach flashes and wobbles, the moon
   Dripping down so quietly on it.  A tune
   Is beating out of the curses and screams,
   And the cracking all through the painted seams.
   Steady, old horse, we'll keep it in sight.
       'Tis a rare fine night!

   There's a clump of trees on the dip of the down,
   And the sky shimmers where it hangs over the town.
   It seems a shame to break the air
   In two with this pistol, but I've my share
   Of drudgery like other men.
       His hat?  Amen!

   Hold up, you beast, now what the devil!
   Confound this moor for a pockholed, evil,
   Rotten marsh.  My right leg's snapped.
   'Tis a mercy he's rolled, but I'm nicely capped.
   A broken-legged man and a broken-legged horse!
       They'll get me, of course.

   The cursed coach will reach the town
   And they'll all come out, every loafer grown
   A lion to handcuff a man that's down.
   What's that?  Oh, the coachman's bulleted hat!
   I'll give it a head to fit it pat.
       Thank you!  No cravat.

   They handcuffed the body just for style,
   And they hung him in chains for the volatile
   Wind to scour him flesh from bones.
   Way out on the moor you can hear the groans
   His gibbet makes when it blows a gale.
       'Tis a common tale.

   Paul Jannes was working very late,
   For this watch must be done by eight
   To-morrow or the Cardinal
   Would certainly be vexed.  Of all
   His customers the old prelate
   Was the most important, for his state
   Descended to his watches and rings,
   And he gave his mistresses many things
   To make them forget his age and smile
   When he paid visits, and they could while
   The time away with a diamond locket
   Exceedingly well.  So they picked his pocket,
   And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses.
   This watch was made to buy him blisses
   From an Austrian countess on her way
   Home, and she meant to start next day.

   Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame
   Of a tallow candle, and became
   So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince
   Striking the hour a moment since.
   Its echo, only half apprehended,
   Lingered about the room.  He ended
   Screwing the little rubies in,
   Setting the wheels to lock and spin,
   Curling the infinitesimal springs,
   Fixing the filigree hands.  Chippings
   Of precious stones lay strewn about.
   The table before him was a rout
   Of splashes and sparks of coloured light.
   There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite
   A heap of emeralds, and steel.
   Here was a gem, there was a wheel.
   And glasses lay like limpid lakes
   Shining and still, and there were flakes
   Of silver, and shavings of pearl,
   And little wires all awhirl
   With the light of the candle.  He took the watch
   And wound its hands about to match
   The time, then glanced up to take the hour
   From the hanging clock.
                            Good, Merciful Power!
   How came that shadow on the wall,
   No woman was in the room!  His tall
   Chiffonier stood gaunt behind
   His chair.  His old cloak, rabbit-lined,
   Hung from a peg.  The door was closed.
   Just for a moment he must have dozed.
   He looked again, and saw it plain.
   The silhouette made a blue-black stain
   On the opposite wall, and it never wavered
   Even when the candle quavered
   Under his panting breath.  What made
   That beautiful, dreadful thing, that shade
   Of something so lovely, so exquisite,
   Cast from a substance which the sight
   Had not been tutored to perceive?
   Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve.

   Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wall
   Gleamed black, and never moved at all.

   Paul's watches were like amulets,
   Wrought into patterns and rosettes;
   The cases were all set with stones,
   And wreathing lines, and shining zones.
   He knew the beauty in a curve,
   And the Shadow tortured every nerve
   With its perfect rhythm of outline
   Cutting the whitewashed wall.  So fine
   Was the neck he knew he could have spanned
   It about with the fingers of one hand.
   The chin rose to a mouth he guessed,
   But could not see, the lips were pressed
   Loosely together, the edges close,
   And the proud and delicate line of the nose
   Melted into a brow, and there
   Broke into undulant waves of hair.
   The lady was edged with the stamp of race.
   A singular vision in such a place.

   He moved the candle to the tall
   Chiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall.
   He threw his cloak upon a chair,
   And still the lady's face was there.
   From every corner of the room
   He saw, in the patch of light, the gloom
   That was the lady.  Her violet bloom
   Was almost brighter than that which came
   From his candle's tulip-flame.
   He set the filigree hands; he laid
   The watch in the case which he had made;
   He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffed
   His candle out.  The room seemed stuffed
   With darkness.  Softly he crossed the floor,
   And let himself out through the door.

   The sun was flashing from every pin
   And wheel, when Paul let himself in.
   The whitewashed walls were hot with light.
   The room was the core of a chrysolite,
   Burning and shimmering with fiery might.
   The sun was so bright that no shadow could fall
   From the furniture upon the wall.
   Paul sighed as he looked at the empty space
   Where a glare usurped the lady's place.
   He settled himself to his work, but his mind
   Wandered, and he would wake to find
   His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim,
   And nothing advanced beyond the rim
   Of his dreaming.  The Cardinal sent to pay
   For his watch, which had purchased so fine a day.
   But Paul could hardly touch the gold,
   It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold.
   With the first twilight he struck a match
   And watched the little blue stars hatch
   Into an egg of perfect flame.
   He lit his candle, and almost in shame
   At his eagerness, lifted his eyes.
   The Shadow was there, and its precise
   Outline etched the cold, white wall.
   The young man swore, "By God!  You, Paul,
   There's something the matter with your brain.
   Go home now and sleep off the strain."

   The next day was a storm, the rain
   Whispered and scratched at the window-pane.
   A grey and shadowless morning filled
   The little shop.  The watches, chilled,
   Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals.
   The gems lay on the table like shoals
   Of stranded shells, their colours faded,
   Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded.
   Paul's head was heavy, his hands obeyed
   No orders, for his fancy strayed.
   His work became a simple round
   Of watches repaired and watches wound.
   The slanting ribbons of the rain
   Broke themselves on the window-pane,
   But Paul saw the silver lines in vain.
   Only when the candle was lit
   And on the wall just opposite
   He watched again the coming of it,
   Could he trace a line for the joy of his soul
   And over his hands regain control.

   Paul lingered late in his shop that night
   And the designs which his delight
   Sketched on paper seemed to be
   A tribute offered wistfully
   To the beautiful shadow of her who came
   And hovered over his candle flame.
   In the morning he selected all
   His perfect jacinths.  One large opal
   Hung like a milky, rainbow moon
   In the centre, and blown in loose festoon
   The red stones quivered on silver threads
   To the outer edge, where a single, fine
   Band of mother-of-pearl the line
   Completed.  On the other side,
   The creamy porcelain of the face
   Bore diamond hours, and no lace
   Of cotton or silk could ever be
   Tossed into being more airily
   Than the filmy golden hands; the time
   Seemed to tick away in rhyme.
   When, at dusk, the Shadow grew
   Upon the wall, Paul's work was through.
   Holding the watch, he spoke to her:
   "Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir
   Into one brief sign of being.
   Turn your eyes this way, and seeing
   This watch, made from those sweet curves
   Where your hair from your forehead swerves,
   Accept the gift which I have wrought
   With your fairness in my thought.
   Grant me this, and I shall be
   Honoured overwhelmingly."

   The Shadow rested black and still,
   And the wind sighed over the window-sill.

   Paul put the despised watch away
   And laid out before him his array
   Of stones and metals, and when the morning
   Struck the stones to their best adorning,
   He chose the brightest, and this new watch
   Was so light and thin it seemed to catch
   The sunlight's nothingness, and its gleam.
   Topazes ran in a foamy stream
   Over the cover, the hands were studded
   With garnets, and seemed red roses, budded.
   The face was of crystal, and engraved
   Upon it the figures flashed and waved
   With zircons, and beryls, and amethysts.
   It took a week to make, and his trysts
   At night with the Shadow were his alone.
   Paul swore not to speak till his task was done.
   The night that the jewel was worthy to give.
   Paul watched the long hours of daylight live
   To the faintest streak; then lit his light,
   And sharp against the wall's pure white
   The outline of the Shadow started
   Into form.  His burning-hearted
   Words so long imprisoned swelled
   To tumbling speech.  Like one compelled,
   He told the lady all his love,
   And holding out the watch above
   His head, he knelt, imploring some
   Littlest sign.
                   The Shadow was dumb.

   Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste,
   And everything he made he placed
   Before his lady.  The Shadow kept
   Its perfect passiveness.  Paul wept.
   He wooed her with the work of his hands,
   He waited for those dear commands
   She never gave.  No word, no motion,
   Eased the ache of his devotion.
   His days passed in a strain of toil,
   His nights burnt up in a seething coil.
   Seasons shot by, uncognisant
   He worked.  The Shadow came to haunt
   Even his days.  Sometimes quite plain
   He saw on the wall the blackberry stain
   Of his lady's picture.  No sun was bright
   Enough to dazzle that from his sight.

   There were moments when he groaned to see
   His life spilled out so uselessly,
   Begging for boons the Shade refused,
   His finest workmanship abused,
   The iridescent bubbles he blew
   Into lovely existence, poor and few
   In the shadowed eyes.  Then he would curse
   Himself and her!  The Universe!
   And more, the beauty he could not make,
   And give her, for her comfort's sake!
   He would beat his weary, empty hands
   Upon the table, would hold up strands
   Of silver and gold, and ask her why
   She scorned the best which he could buy.
   He would pray as to some high-niched saint,
   That she would cure him of the taint
   Of failure.  He would clutch the wall
   With his bleeding fingers, if she should fall
   He could catch, and hold her, and make her live!
   With sobs he would ask her to forgive
   All he had done.  And broken, spent,
   He would call himself impertinent;
   Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing; driven
   To madness by the sight of Heaven.
   At other times he would take the things
   He had made, and winding them on strings,
   Hang garlands before her, and burn perfumes,
   Chanting strangely, while the fumes
   Wreathed and blotted the shadow face,
   As with a cloudy, nacreous lace.
   There were days when he wooed as a lover, sighed
   In tenderness, spoke to his bride,
   Urged her to patience, said his skill
   Should break the spell.  A man's sworn will
   Could compass life, even that, he knew.
   By Christ's Blood!  He would prove it true!

   The edge of the Shadow never blurred.
   The lips of the Shadow never stirred.

   He would climb on chairs to reach her lips,
   And pat her hair with his finger-tips.
   But instead of young, warm flesh returning
   His warmth, the wall was cold and burning
   Like stinging ice, and his passion, chilled,
   Lay in his heart like some dead thing killed
   At the moment of birth.  Then, deadly sick,
   He would lie in a swoon for hours, while thick
   Phantasmagoria crowded his brain,
   And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain.
   The crisis passed, he would wake and smile
   With a vacant joy, half-imbecile
   And quite confused, not being certain
   Why he was suffering; a curtain
   Fallen over the tortured mind beguiled
   His sorrow.  Like a little child
   He would play with his watches and gems, with glee
   Calling the Shadow to look and see
   How the spots on the ceiling danced prettily
   When he flashed his stones.  "Mother, the green
   Has slid so cunningly in between
   The blue and the yellow.  Oh, please look down!"
   Then, with a pitiful, puzzled frown,
   He would get up slowly from his play
   And walk round the room, feeling his way
   From table to chair, from chair to door,
   Stepping over the cracks in the floor,
   Till reaching the table again, her face
   Would bring recollection, and no solace
   Could balm his hurt till unconsciousness
   Stifled him and his great distress.

   One morning he threw the street door wide
   On coming in, and his vigorous stride
   Made the tools on his table rattle and jump.
   In his hands he carried a new-burst clump
   Of laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalks
   Were pliant with sap.  As a husband talks
   To the wife he left an hour ago,
   Paul spoke to the Shadow.  "Dear, you know
   To-day the calendar calls it Spring,
   And I woke this morning gathering
   Asphodels, in my dreams, for you.
   So I rushed out to see what flowers blew
   Their pink-and-purple-scented souls
   Across the town-wind's dusty scrolls,
   And made the approach to the Market Square
   A garden with smells and sunny air.
   I feel so well and happy to-day,
   I think I shall take a Holiday.
   And to-night we will have a little treat.
   I am going to bring you something to eat!"
   He looked at the Shadow anxiously.
   It was quite grave and silent.  He
   Shut the outer door and came
   And leant against the window-frame.
   "Dearest," he said, "we live apart
   Although I bear you in my heart.
   We look out each from a different world.
   At any moment we may be hurled
   Asunder.  They follow their orbits, we
   Obey their laws entirely.
   Now you must come, or I go there,
   Unless we are willing to live the flare
   Of a lighted instant and have it gone."

   A bee in the laurels began to drone.
   A loosened petal fluttered prone.

   "Man grows by eating, if you eat
   You will be filled with our life, sweet
   Will be our planet in your mouth.
   If not, I must parch in death's wide drouth
   Until I gain to where you are,
   And give you myself in whatever star
   May happen.  O You Beloved of Me!
   Is it not ordered cleverly?"

   The Shadow, bloomed like a plum, and clear,
   Hung in the sunlight.  It did not hear.