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Lotus Hurt by the Cold

       Malade

       Liaison

       Troth With the Dead

       Dissolute

       Submergence

       The Enkindled Spring

       Reproach

       The Hands of the Betrothed

       Excursion

       Perfidy

       A Spiritual Woman

       Mating

       A Love Song

       Brother and Sister

       After Many Days

       Blue

       Snap-dragon

       A Passing Bell

       In Trouble and Shame

       Elegy

       Grey Evening

       Firelight and Nightfall

       The Mystic Blue

      TO

       OTTOLINE MORRELL

       IN TRIBUTE

       TO HER NOBLE

       AND INDEPENDENT SYMPATHY

       AND HER GENEROUS UNDERSTANDING

       THESE POEMS

       ARE GRATEFULLY DEDICATED

      Tease

       Table of Contents

      I will give you all my keys,

       You shall be my châtelaine,

       You shall enter as you please,

       As you please shall go again.

       When I hear you jingling through

       All the chambers of my soul,

       How I sit and laugh at you

       In your vain housekeeping rôle.

       Jealous of the smallest cover,

       Angry at the simplest door;

       Well, you anxious, inquisitive lover,

       Are you pleased with what's in store?

       You have fingered all my treasures,

       Have you not, most curiously,

       Handled all my tools and measures

       And masculine machinery?

       Over every single beauty

       You have had your little rapture;

       You have slain, as was your duty,

       Every sin-mouse you could capture.

       Still you are not satisfied,

       Still you tremble faint reproach;

       Challenge me I keep aside

       Secrets that you may not broach.

       Maybe yes, and maybe no,

       Maybe there are secret places, Altars barbarous below, Elsewhere halls of high disgraces. Maybe yes, and maybe no, You may have it as you please, Since I choose to keep you so, Suppliant on your curious knees.

      The Wild Common

       Table of Contents

      The quick sparks on the gorse bushes are leaping,

       Little jets of sunlight-texture imitating flame;

       Above them, exultant, the pee-wits are sweeping:

       They are lords of the desolate wastes of sadness

       their screamings proclaim.

       Rabbits, handfuls of brown earth, lie

       Low-rounded on the mournful grass they have bitten down to the quick.

       Are they asleep?—Are they alive?—Now see, when I

       Move my arms the hill bursts and heaves under their spurting kick.

       The common flaunts bravely; but below, from the

       rushes

       Crowds of glittering king-cups surge to challenge the

       blossoming bushes;

       There the lazy streamlet pushes

       Its curious course mildly; here it wakes again, leaps,

       laughs, and gushes.

       Into a deep pond, an old sheep-dip,

       Dark, overgrown with willows, cool, with the brook

       ebbing through so slow,

       Naked on the steep, soft lip

       Of the bank I stand watching my own white shadow

       quivering to and fro.

       What if the gorse flowers shrivelled and kissing were

       lost?

       Without the pulsing waters, where were the marigolds

       and the songs of the brook?

       If my veins and my breasts with love embossed

       Withered, my insolent soul would be gone like flowers

       that the hot wind took.

       So my soul like a passionate woman turns,

       Filled with remorseful terror to the man she scorned,

       and her love

       For myself in my own eyes' laughter burns,

       Runs ecstatic over the pliant folds rippling down to

      

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