LITMIR.BIZ

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the box,

       He who has been famous, and he who shall be famous after today,

       The stammerer . . . . the wellformed person . . the wasted or feeble person.

      I am she who adorned herself and folded her hair expectantly,

       My truant lover has come and it is dark.

      Double yourself and receive me darkness,

       Receive me and my lover too . . . . he will not let me go without him.

      I roll myself upon you as upon a bed . . . . I resign myself to the dusk.

      He whom I call answers me and takes the place of my lover,

       He rises with me silently from the bed.

      Darkness you are gentler than my lover . . . . his flesh was sweaty and panting,

       I feel the hot moisture yet that he left me.

      My hands are spread forth . . I pass them in all directions,

       I would sound up the shadowy shore to which you are journeying.

      Be careful, darkness . . . . already, what was it touched me?

       I thought my lover had gone . . . . else darkness and he are one,

       I hear the heart-beat . . . . I follow . . I fade away.

      O hotcheeked and blushing! O foolish hectic!

       O for pity’s sake, no one must see me now! . . . . my clothes were stolen while I was abed,

       Now I am thrust forth, where shall I run?

      Pier that I saw dimly last night when I looked from the windows,

      Pier out from the main, let me catch myself with you and stay . . . . I will not chafe you;

       I feel ashamed to go naked about the world,

       And am curious to know where my feet stand . . . . and what is this flooding me, childhood or manhood . . . . and the hunger that crosses the bridge between.

      The cloth laps a first sweet eating and drinking,

       Laps life-swelling yolks . . . . laps ear of rose-corn, milky and just ripened:

       The white teeth stay, and the boss-tooth advances in darkness,

       And liquor is spilled on lips and bosoms by touching glasses, and the best liquor afterward.

      I descend my western course . . . . my sinews are flaccid,

       Perfume and youth course through me, and I am their wake.

      It is my face yellow and wrinkled instead of the old woman’s,

       I sit low in a strawbottom chair and carefully darn my grandson’s stockings.

      It is I too . . . . the sleepless widow looking out on the winter midnight,

       I see the sparkles of starshine on the icy and pallid earth.

      A shroud I see -- and I am the shroud . . . . I wrap a body and lie in the coffin;

       It is dark here underground . . . . it is not evil or pain here . . . . it is blank here, for reasons.

      It seems to me that everything in the light and air ought to be happy;

       Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave, let him know he has enough.

      I see a beautiful gigantic swimmer swimming naked through the eddies of the sea,

       His brown hair lies close and even to his head . . . . he strikes out with courageous arms . . . . he urges himself with his legs.

      I see his white body . . . . I see his undaunted eyes;

       I hate the swift-running eddies that would dash him headforemost on the rocks.

      What are you doing you ruffianly red-trickled waves?

       Will you kill the courageous giant? Will you kill him in the prime of his middle age?

      Steady and long he struggles;

       He is baffled and banged and bruised . . . . he holds out while his strength holds out,

       The slapping eddies are spotted with his blood . . . . they bear him away . . . . they roll him and swing him and turn him:

       His beautiful body is borne in the circling eddies . . . . it is continually bruised on rocks,

       Swiftly and out of sight is borne the brave corpse.

      I turn but do not extricate myself;

       Confused . . . . a pastreading . . . . another, but with darkness yet.

      The beach is cut by the razory ice-wind . . . . the wreck-guns sound,

       The tempest lulls and the moon comes floundering through the drifts.

      I look where the ship helplessly heads end on . . . . I hear the burst as she strikes . . I hear the howls of dismay . . . . they grow fainter and fainter.

      I cannot aid with my wringing fingers;

       I can but rush to the surf and let it drench me and freeze upon me.

      I search with the crowd . . . . not one of the company is washed to us alive;

       In the morning I help pick up the dead and lay them in rows in a barn.

      Now of the old war-days . . the defeat at Brooklyn;

       Washington stands inside the lines . . he stands on the entrenched hills amid a crowd of officers,

       His face is cold and damp . . . . he cannot repress the weeping drops . . . . he lifts the glass perpetually to his eyes . . . . the color is blanched from his cheeks,

       He sees the slaughter of the southern braves confided to him by their parents.

      The same at last and at last when peace is declared,

       He stands in the room of the old tavern . . . . the wellbeloved soldiers all pass through,

       The officers speechless and slow draw near in their turns,

       The chief encircles their necks with his arm and kisses them on the cheek,

       He kisses lightly the wet cheeks one after another . . . . he shakes hands and bids goodbye to the army.

      Now I tell what my mother told me today as we sat at dinner together,

       Of when she was a nearly grown girl living home with her parents on the old homestead.

      A red squaw came one breakfasttime to the old homestead,

       On her back she carried a bundle of rushes for rushbottoming chairs;

       Her hair straight shiny coarse black and profuse halfenveloped her face,

       Her step was free and elastic . . . . her voice sounded exquisitely as she spoke.

       My mother looked in delight and amazement at the stranger,

       She looked at the beauty of her tallborne face and full and pliant limbs,

       The more she looked upon her she loved her,

       Never before had she seen such wonderful beauty and purity;

       She made her sit on a bench by the jamb of the fireplace . . . . she cooked food for her,

      She had no work to give her but she gave her remembrance and fondness.

      The red squaw staid all the forenoon, and toward the middle of the afternoon she went away;

       O my mother was loth to have her go away,

       All the week she thought of her . . . . she watched for her many a month,

       She remembered her many a winter and many a summer,

       But the red squaw never came nor was heard of there again.

      Now Lucifer was not dead . . . . or if he was I am his sorrowful terrible heir;

       I have been wronged . . . . I am oppressed . . . . I hate him that

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