Straight strength pitched into the surliness of the ditch, A soul you have—strength has always delicate secret reasons. Your soul is a dull question. I do not care for your strength, but for your stiff smile at Time— A smile which men call rust.
My moon was lit in an hour of lilies; The apple-trees seemed older than ever. It rose from matted trees that sever The oats from the meadow, and woke the fillies That reared in dew and gleamed with dew And ran like water and shadow, and cried. It moistened and veiled the oats yet new, And seemed to drip long drops of the tide, Of the mother-sea so lately left. Feathers of flower were each bereft Of color and stem, and floated low; Another lily opened then And lost a little gold dust; but when The lime-boughs lifted there seemed to go Some life of the moon, like breath that moves Or parting glances that flutter and strain— A ghost with hands the color of doves And feet the color of rain.
From song and dream for ever gone Are Helen, Helen of Troy, And Cleopatra made to look upon, And many a daring boy— Young Faust and Sigurd and Hippolytus: They are twice dead and we must find Great ladies yet unblemished by the mind, Heroes and acts not cold for us In amber or spirits of too many words. Ay, these are murdered by much thinking on. I hanker even for new shapes of swords, More different sins, and raptures not yet done. Yet, as I wait on marvels, such a bird As maybe Sigurd heard— A thrush—alighting with a little run Out-tops the daisies as it passes And peeps bright-eyed above the grasses.
A thrush is tapping a stone With a snail-shell in its beak; A small bird hangs from a cherry Until the stem shall break. No waking song has begun, And yet birds chatter and hurry And throng in the elm’s gloom Because an owl goes home.
Leave the lovely words unsaid; For another thought is fled From my dream-entangled mind. Bird of passion, unenshrined, I can never phrase thee quite— So I speed thee on thy flight, Unembodied thus forever, Floating in a mist that never May be raised. Thou art one Of the black-winged birds that run, With uncomprehended flight, Unimpeded down the night.
In your arms was still delight, Quiet as a street at night; And thoughts of you, I do remember, Were green leaves in a darkened chamber, Were dark clouds in a moonless sky. Love, in you, went passing by, Penetrative, remote, and rare, Like a bird in the wide air; And, as the bird, it left no trace In the heaven of your face. In your stupidity I found The sweet hush after a sweet sound. All about you was the light That dims the graying end of night; Desire was the unrisen sun, Joy the day not yet begun, With tree whispering to tree, Without wind, quietly. Wisdom slept within your hair, And Long-suffering was there, And, in the flowing of your dress, Undiscerning Tenderness. And when you thought, it seemed to me, Infinitely, and like a sea, About the slight world you had known Your vast unconsciousness was thrown.... O haven without wave or tide! Silence, in which all songs have died! Holy book, where hearts are still! And home at length under the hill! O mother quiet, breasts of peace, Where love itself would faint and cease! O infinite deep I never knew, I would come back, come back to you, Find you, as a pool unstirred, Kneel down by you, and never a word, Lay my head, and nothing said, In your hands, ungarlanded; And a long watch you would keep; And I should sleep, and I should sleep!