AT the open door of the room I stand
and look at
the night,
Hold my hand to catch the raindrops, that slant
into
sight,
Arriving grey from the darkness above suddenly
into
the light of the room.
I will escape from the hollow
room, the box of light,
And be out in the bewildering darkness, which
is
always fecund, which might
Mate my hungry soul with a germ
of its womb.
I will go out to the night, as a man
goes down to the
shore
To draw his net through the surfs thin line, at
the
dawn before
The sun warms the sea, little, lonely and sad,
sifting
the sobbing tide.
I will sift the surf that edges
the night, with my net,
the four
Strands of my eyes and my lips
and my hands and my
feet, sifting the store
Of flotsam until my soul is
tired or satisfied.
I will catch in my eyes’ quick
net
The faces of all
the women as they go past,
Bend over them with my soul, to cherish the
wet
Cheeks and wet
hair a moment, saying: “Is it
you?”
Looking earnestly under the
dark umbrellas, held
fast
Against the wind; and if, where the
lamplight
blew
Its rainy swill about us, she answered
me
With a laugh and
a merry wildness that it was she
Who was seeking me, and had found me at last
to
free
Me now from the stunting bonds of my
chastity,
How glad I
should be!
Moving along in the mysterious ebb of the night Pass the men whose eyes are shut like anemones in a dark pool; Why don’t they open with vision and speak to me, what have they in sight? Why do I wander aimless among them, desirous fool?
I can always linger over the huddled
books on the
stalls,
Always gladden my amorous fingers with the
touch
of their leaves,
Always kneel in courtship to
the shelves in the
doorways, where falls
The shadow, always offer myself
to one mistress,
who always
receives.
But oh, it is not enough, it is all
no good.
There is
something I want to feel in my running
blood,
Something I want to touch; I
must hold my face to
the rain,
I must hold my face to the wind, and let it
explain
Me its life
as it hurries in secret.
I will trail my hands again through the
drenched,
cold leaves
Till my hands are full of the chillness and
touch of
leaves,
Till at length they induce me to sleep, and to
forget.