SHE bade me follow to her garden,
where
The mellow
sunlight stood as in a cup
Between the old grey walls; I did not
dare
To raise my
face, I did not dare look up,
Lest her bright eyes like sparrows should fly
in
My windows of
discovery, and shrill “Sin.”
So with a downcast mien and laughing
voice
I followed,
followed the swing of her white dress
That rocked in a lilt along: I watched the
poise
Of her feet as
they flew for a space, then paused to
press
The grass deep down with the
royal burden of her:
And gladly I’d offered my breast to the tread of
her.
“I like to see,” she said, and she
crouched her down,
She sunk into my sight like a settling bird;
And her bosom couched in the
confines of her gown
Like heavy birds at rest there, softly stirred
By her measured breaths: “I
like to see,” said she,
“The snap-dragon put out his tongue at
me.”
She laughed, she reached her hand
out to the flower,
Closing its crimson throat. My own throat in her
power
Strangled, my heart swelled up so
full
As if it would
burst its wine-skin in my throat,
Choke me in my own crimson. I watched her
pull
The gorge of
the gaping flower, till the blood did
float
Over my eyes, and I
was blind —
Her large brown hand stretched
over
The windows of my mind;
And
there in the dark I did discover
Things I was out to
find:
My Grail, a brown bowl twined
With
swollen veins that met in the wrist,
Under whose brown the
amethyst
I longed to taste. I longed to
turn
My heart’s red measure in her
cup,
I longed to feel my hot blood
burn
With the amethyst in her
cup.
Then
suddenly she looked up,
And I was blind in a
tawny-gold day,
Till she took her eyes away.
So she
came down from above
And emptied my heart of love.
So I
held my heart aloft
To the cuckoo that hung like a
dove,
And she settled
soft
It seemed that I and the
morning world
Were pressed cup-shape to take this reiver
Bird who was weary
to have furled
Her wings in us,
As we were weary to receive
her.
This
bird, this rich,
Sumptuous
central grain,
This mutable
witch,
This one
refrain,
This laugh in
the fight,
This clot of
night,
This core of
delight.
She spoke, and I closed
my eyes
To shut hallucinations out.
I echoed with
surprise
Hearing my mere lips shout
The answer they did
devise.
Again I saw
a brown bird hover
Over the flowers at my feet;
I felt
a brown bird hover
Over my heart, and sweet
Its
shadow lay on my heart.
I thought I saw on the
clover
A brown bee pulling apart
The
closed flesh of the clover
And burrowing in its
heart.
She moved
her hand, and again
I felt the brown bird cover
My
heart; and then
The bird came down on my heart,
As on a
nest the rover
Cuckoo comes, and shoves over
The
brim each careful part
Of love, takes
possession, and settles her down,
With her wings and her
feathers to drown
The nest in a heat of
love.
She turned her flushed face to me
for the glint
Of a
moment. “See,” she laughed, “if you also
Can make them yawn.” I put my
hand to the dint
In
the flower’s throat, and the flower gaped wide
with
woe.
She watched,
she went of a sudden intensely still,
She watched my hand, to see what I would
fulfil.
I pressed the wretched, throttled
flower between
My
fingers, till its head lay back, its fangs
Poised at her. Like a weapon my
hand was white
and keen,
And I held the choked flower-serpent in its
pangs
Of mordant
anguish, till she ceased to laugh,
Until her pride’s flag, smitten, cleaved down to
the
staff.
She hid her face, she murmured
between her lips
The
low word “Don’t.” I let the flower fall,
But held my hand afloat towards
the slips
Of blossom
she fingered, and my fingers all
Put forth to her: she did not move, nor
I,
For my hand like
a snake watched hers, that could
not
fly.
Then I laughed in the dark of my
heart, I did exult
Like a sudden chuckling of music. I bade her eyes
Meet mine, I opened her
helpless eyes to consult
Their fear, their shame, their joy that
underlies
Defeat in
such a battle. In the dark of her eyes
My heart was fierce to make her laughter
rise.
Till her dark deeps shook with
convulsive thrills, and
the dark
Of her spirit wavered like
water thrilled with light;
And my heart leaped up in longing to plunge its
stark
Fervour within
the pool of her twilight,
Within her spacious soul, to grope in
delight.
And I do not care, though the large
hands of revenge
Shall get my throat at last, shall get it soon,
If the joy that they are
searching to avenge
Have risen red on my night as a harvest moon,
Which even death can only put
out for me;
And
death, I know, is better than not-to-be.