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hand upon the coverlet,

       Her face low in the linen’s cleft,

       They were as wan as water-flowers

       By light bereft.

      And never was bloom brought to her couch

       But shed the odour of a sigh

       Because she was as white as they,

       And they must die.

      “O Pale, lit deep within the dark

       Of your young eyes, a stifled light

       Leaps thin and keen as melody

       And leavens night.

      “It is a light that did not burn

       When you were gay at mart and fair;

       O Pale, what is that starry fire,

       Fed unaware?”

      Then softly she: “I may not tell

       What other eyes behold in mine;

       But I have melted night and day

       In some wild wine.

      “I may not read the graven cup

       Exhaustless as a brimming bell

       Distilling silver; but I drank

       And all is well.

      “One morn like this, bitter still,

       I waited for the early stir

       Of those who slept the while I watched

       What muffled wonders were.

      “I saw my lily on the sill;

       I saw my mirror on the wall

       Take light that was not; and I saw

       My spectral taper tall.

      “Why I had known these quiet things

       Since I could speak. Yet suddenly

       They all touched hands and in one breath

       They spoke to me.

      “I may not tell you what they said.

       The strange part is that I must lie

       And never tell you what we say——

       These things and I.

      “I only know that common things

       Bear sudden little spirits set

       Free by the rose of dawn and by

       Night’s violet.

      “I only know that when I hear

       Clear tone, the haunted echoes bear

       Legions of little winged feet

       On printless air.

      “And when warm colour weds my look

       A word is uttered tremblingly,

       With meaning fall—but I know not

       What it may be.

      “I only know that now I find

       Abiding beauty everywhere;

       Or if it bide not, that it fades

       Is still more fair.

      I long to question those I love

       And yet I know not what to say;

       I am alone as one upon

       Some secret way.

      “My words are barren of my bliss;

       The strange part is that I must lie

       And never tell you what we say—

       These things and I.

      “So will it be when I am not.

       A little more perhaps to tell;

       Yet then as now I may not say

       What I know well.”

      She died when all the east was red.

       And we are they who know her fate

       Because we love the way of life

       That she had found too late.

TERZA RIMA

       Table of Contents

      I: Old Talk

      Old Eyelot sees what never is.

       She says: “Pale lights move on the hill,

       Deep in the air are treasuries.”

      She says: “I never go to mill

       Wood-way but something walks with me,

       So go wood-way I always will.

      Wood-walking, I go mad to see

       What will die out just as I turn

       To catch it by the crooked tree.

      I pass the bush that I saw burning

       With wild black flame at full of moon.

       That was a sight to set one learning

      What things one merely doubts at noon.

       A-well, I know not what I learned.

       God send that you may learn it soon.

      Windows for walls, thoughts that have turned

       Back into folk, gateways of horn,

       And the wild hearts that men have burned,

      These things I see. And ay, one morn

       I saw the little people bear

       Away my little child new-born.

      They gave her food yielded in air,

       Honey and rose-down.

       I looked and she was very fair.

      So when the people of the town

       (Who did not know) believed her dead

       And wrapped her in a cloudy gown

      I did not mourn. I only said:

       “She is the daughter of the Day

       And with the Night she has been wed.

      “I am the mother of that one

       Born for two worlds. And I am she

       Who sees more things than moon and sun

       And little stars will ever see.”

      * * *

      Old Eyelot sees what never is.

       She says: “Green lights move on the leas,

       Deep in the air are treasuries.”

       I wonder what old Eyelot sees?

      II: Magic

      An ancient wildwood showed its heart to me.

       (O Little Wind that brought me what it said!)

       I went within its great nave reverently.

      There dwelt the silence ever lightly wed

       With winged sound. There the persuading green

       Took ancient citadels with soundless tread.

      Was not the opening blue of buds between

       Soft solitary leaves a lyric set

       To music of the things that lift and lean?

      My hands were mother-tender of the net

       Of silk they found. My feet were light

      

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