IT is stormy, and raindrops cling
like silver bees to
the pane,
The thin sycamores in the
playground are swinging
with flattened
leaves;
The heads of
the boys move dimly through a yellow
gloom that
stains
The class;
over them all the dark net of my discipline
weaves.
It is no good, dear, gentleness and
forbearance, I
endured too long.
I have pushed my hands in the
dark soil, under the
flower of my soul
And the gentle leaves, and have
felt where the roots
are strong
Fixed in the darkness,
grappling for the deep soil’s
little
control.
And there is the dark, my darling,
where the roots
are entangled and fight
Each one for its hold on the
oblivious darkness, I
know that
there
In the night
where we first have being, before we rise
on the light,
We are not brothers, my
darling, we fight and we
do not
spare.
And in the original dark the roots
cannot keep,
cannot know
Any communion whatever, but
they bind themselves
on to the dark,
And drawing the darkness
together, crush from it a
twilight, a
slow
Burning that
breaks at last into leaves and a flower’s
bright
spark.
I came to the boys with love, my
dear, but they
turned on me;
I came with gentleness, with my
heart ‘twixt my
hands like a bowl,
Like a loving-cup, like a
grail, but they spilt it
triumphantly
And tried to break the vessel,
and to violate my
soul.
But what have I to do with the boys,
deep down in
my soul, my love?
I throw from out of the
darkness my self like a flower
into
sight,
Like a flower
from out of the night-time, I lift my
face, and
those
Who will may
warm their hands at me, comfort this
night.
But whosoever would pluck apart my
flowering shall
burn their hands,
So flowers are tender folk, and
roots can only hide,
Yet my flowerings of love are a fire, and the scarlet
brands
Of my love are roses to look at, but flames to
chide.
But comfort me, my love, now the
fires are low,
Now I
am broken to earth like a winter destroyed,
and all
Myself but a knowledge of roots, of roots in the
dark
that throw
A net on the undersoil, which
lies passive beneath
their
thrall.
But comfort me, for henceforth my
love is yours
alone,
To you alone will I offer the bowl, to you will
I give
My essence
only, but love me, and I will atone
To you for my general loving, atone as long as I
live.