Our door was shut to the noon-day heat.
We could not see him.
We might not have heard him either—
Resting, dozing, dreaming pleasantly.
But his step was tremendous—
Are mountains on the march?
He was no man who passed;
But a great faithful horse
Dragging a load
Up the hill.
If you stand where I stand—
in my boudoir—
(don’t mind my shaving—
I can’t afford a barber)—
you can see into her boudoir—
you can see milady—
her back, her green smock, the bench she loves—
her hair always down in the morning—
black, and nearly as long as the curtains—
with ringlets at the tips—
the hairdresser called this A.M.—
him I have to, I want to afford.
Unhappily, you can’t see her face—
only the back of her small round head—
and a glint of her ears, two glints—
but her hands, alas, not her hands, though
happily, you can hear them.
It isn’t a clavichord—
only a satinwood square—
bought cheap at an auction—
but it might be, you’d think it,
a clavichord, bequeathed by the past—
it sounds quite like feathers.
Bach? Yes, who else could that be—
whom else would you have in the morning—
with the sun and milady?
Grave? Yes, but so is the sun—
not always? No, but please don’t ponder—
listen, hear the theme—
hear it dig into the earth of harmonies.
A dissonance? No, it’s only a stone—
which powders into particles with the rest.
Now follow the theme—
down, down, into the soil—
calling, evoking the spirit of birth—
you hear those new tones—
that sprinkle, that burst—
roulade and arpeggio?
Gently now, firmly—
with solemn persuasion—
hiding a whimsic raillery—
(does a dead king raise his forefinger?)—
though they would, though they might-
no phrase can escape—
the theme rules.
Unhappy? No,
they ought to be happy-
each is because of, in spite of, the other—
that is democracy—
he can’t spare a particle—
that priest of the morning sun.
A mistake? Yes indeed, but—
all the more human—
would you have her drum like a schoolmaster—
abominable right note at the right time—
in the morning, so early—
or ever at all?—
she’ll play it again—
oh don’t, please don’t clap—
you’ll disturb them!
Here, try my tobacco—
good, a deep pipeful, eh?—
an aromatic blend—
my other extravagance—
yes, I’ll join you, but wait—
I must first dry my face!
To have reached
the ultimate top
of the stalk,
single, tall, fragile;
to hang like a bell,
through sheer weight
of oneself,
rather than pride of
it being the top,
no higher to go,
rather than modesty
of it being
only a stalk,
one among myriads;
to have one’s six petals,
refusing the straight
for the curve,
dipping mere pin-pricks
around the horizon;
to have six tongues,
which, however the mood
of the wind may blow,
refuse to clap into sound;
and to keep, withal,
one’s finest marvel,
one’s passionate specks,
invisible:
tiger-lily,
if I bow,
it is not
in imitation;
it is
in recognition
of true being.
I wish
there were thirteen
gods in the sky,
even twelve might achieve it:
Or even
one god
in me:
Alone,
I can’t shape
an image of her.
Showing her immortal—
it’s mine to do—
but I can’t.
Shaping her—
just as she is—
a thing
to turn a glance
to an eternity—
mood shaping form—
imperishable—
it’s there—
I can see it—
but I can’t say it.
There’s no secret about it—
she tells it
every breathing, breathless moment—
I can hear it—
but I can’t say it.
What can my mere
body and scrivening
leave you, if
it doesn’t leave you her?
If I could transcribe
one infinitesimal phase
of the trillion-starred endowment
which comes tumbling
out of simply trying to look at her,
or out of catching a glance,
slyly pointed,
trying to look at me,
stirring a trillion-starred emotion,
vibrating like a bell
across endless tides of endless seas—
I’d do it—
but I can’t.
I love her so much,
I can’t do anything else.
Its posterior pushing
its long thin body,
a procession of waves lifting its head—
a green caterpillar:
Its roots digging and drinking,
the sap driving outward and up,
shaking its yellow head—
the mountain top of a tree:
Idling along in the blue,
an easy white holiday,
swimming away towards the rim of the bowl—
a cloud:
Dipping and twirling,
soaring, floating, following after—
a butterfly.