Her white breast is red-dyed, she lies on the moss;
Yet faintly cries the same strange word.

Hunter, will you come to my little fire and tell me
What Love is?"

I could not see the maiden's face clearly, for the dusk,
Where she sat by her small fire only her eyes.

In the little flicker I saw her feet; they were bare-
Tireless, slim brown feet.

I saw how fair her lips were

I drew nearer to cast my log on the fire. I said:
"Maiden, I am the Hunter.

When dusk ends the chase I leave the mighty killing.
Far or near, where gleams some little fire,

I grope through the forest with my heavy log;

Till I find one by the fire, sitting alone without fuel.
I cast my log gladly into the fire-thus.

It grips, the flames mount, the warmth embraces.

"Almost I can see your face, Woman;

The bow of your fair lips is hot with speeded arrows,
Your strange clear eyes have darkened.

Fear not

our fire will outlast the dark."

"Hunter, what of the cold on the bleak hillside

When the log burns gray, and the fire is ashes?"

I replied, "I have never seen this:

When the fire burns low I am asleep."

She said: "What of me, if I sleep not, and see the ashes?"

I yawned; I said: "I know not;

I wake in the sun and go forth."

The bow of her lips was like the moon's cold circle.
She said, "Hunter, you have told me of Love!"
"It may be so," I answered. I wished to sleep.
She said, "Already it is ashes."

I looked and saw that her face was gray,
As if the wind had blown the ashes over it.
I was angry; I said, "Better you had slept."

She said, "Yes-but I lie bleeding on the moss,

Crying this word."

I answered, "This is so; but wherefore?" and asked idly,
"Wherefore remember him who brought to your lone little fire
The log that now is ashes?"

She shivered in the cold dawn;

I saw that her eyes were darker than shadows.
Her fair mouth was like my perfect bow,

But I could fit no more arrows to it.

She said, "Hunter, see how gray are these rocks
Where we have sheltered our brief night."

I looked-they were ashen.

She said: "See how they come together here—and here-
As the knees, the breast, the great brow, the forgotten eyes,

Of a woman,

Sitting, waiting, stark and still,

And always gray;

Though hunters camp each night between her knees,

And little fires are kindled and burned out in her hollows."

It was so; the mountain was a stone woman sitting.

Kantlak said: "She remembers him who turned her fire to

ashes;

She waits to know the meaning of her waiting—

Why the love that wounded her can never be cast out."

I asked idly, "Who will tell her?”—

And laughed, for the sun was up. I reached for my arrows;
I drew my strong spear from the deep earth by her feet.
Kantlak looked up to the other gray face, and said,

"No answer is given."

Down to the cold white endless sea-shore

Slowly she went, with bent head.

A young deer cast its leaping shadow on the pool.

I ran upon the bright path, swaying my spear.

Leonora Speyer

MARY MAGDALENE

I think that Mary Magdalene
Was just a woman who went to dine;
And her jewels covered her empty heart,
And her gown was the color of wine.

I think that Mary Magdalene Sat by a stranger with shining head: "Haven't we met somewhere?" she asked. "Magdalene! Mary!" he said.

I think that Mary Magdalene

Fell at his feet and called his name;
Sat at his feet and wept her woe,
And rose up clean of shame.

Nobody knew but Magdalene—
Mary the woman who went to dine-
Nobody saw how he broke the bread
And poured for her peace the wine.

This is the story of Magdalene-
It isn't the tale the Apostles tell,
But I know the woman it happened to,
I know the woman well.

MEASURE ME, SKY!

Measure me, sky!

Tell me I reach by a song

Nearer the stars:

I have been little so long.

Beloved friend, I lied; and am forgiven. But I Cannot forgive that you believed my lie.

THE HEART LOOKS ON

I urged my mind against my will.
My will shook like a rocking wall
But did not fall;

My mind was like a wind-swept tree;
And neither knew the victory.

I dashed my mind against my will.
They did not break or bend or spill;
But in my heart the songs grew still.

WORDS TO SLEEP UPON

There are words that wait

With the night,

Soft as a pillow

And white,

Cool as a rose in the rain,

Deep as disdain.

My pillow is smooth

To my face,

And its words are like

Whispering lace,

Made of a winged design

That is weaving of mine.

But under my pillow

I hide

A song with a singing

Inside

A locket that hangs on a chain

Of finely-wrought pain.

James Stephens

WHAT TOMAS AN BUILE SAID IN A PUB

I saw God. Do you doubt it?

Do you dare to doubt it?

I saw the Almighty Man. His hand

Was resting on a mountain, and

He looked upon the World and all about it:

I saw Him plainer than you see me now,

You mustn't doubt it.

He was not satisfied;

His look was all dissatisfied.