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.

PARASITE

Good woman,

Don't love the man.

Love yourself,

As you have done so exquisitely before.

Like that tortoise-shell cat of yours

Washing away the flies; or are they fleas?
You've hurt him again?

Good!

Do it often.

No,

He'll love you the more

Always.

Remember how he forgave you the last time,

And how he loved you in the forgiving.

Give him an adventure in godhood

And the higher moralities.

Hurt him again.

She went

That listless thing

On her way to black,
Deep black:

She went

And they tried to tell him

She was Night.

INDIAN SKY

The old squaw

Is one

With the old stone behind her.

Both have squatted there

Ask mesa

Or mountain how long?

The bowl she holds

Clay shawl of her art,

Clay ritual of her faith

Is one

With the thought of the past,

And one with the now;

Though dim, a little old, strange.

The earth holds her

As she holds the bowl

Ask kiva

Or shrine how much longer?

No titan,

No destroyer,

No future thought,

Can part

Earth and this woman,

Woman and bowl:

The same shawi

Wraps them around.

William Laird

TRAUMEREI AT OSTENDORFF'S

I ate at Ostendorff's, and saw a dame.
With eager golden eyes, paired with a red,
Bald, chilled old man. Piercing the clatter came
Keen Traumerei. On the sound he bowed his head,
Covered his eyes, and looked on things long sped.
Her white fierce fingers strained, but could not stir
His close-locked hands, nor bring him back to her.

Let him alone, bright lady; for he clips

A fairer lass than you, with all your fire. Let him alone; he touches sweeter lips

Than yours he hired, as others yet shall hire. Leave him the quickening pang of clean desire, Even though vain; nor taint those spring winds blown From banks of perished bloom: let him alone.

Bitter-sweet melody, that call'st to tryst

Love from the hostile dark, would God thy breath Might break upon him now, through thickening mist, The trumpet-summons of imperial Death;

That now, with fire-clean lips where quivereth Atoning sorrow, he shall seek the eyes

Long turned towards earth from fields of paradise.

In vain: by virtue of a far-off smile,

Men may be deaf a space to gross behests

Of nearer voices; for some little while

Sharp pains of youth may burn in old men's breasts.
But-men must eat, though angels be their guests:

The waiter brought spaghetti; he looked up,
Hemmed, blinked, and fiddled with his coffee-cup.

A VERY OLD SONG

"Daughter, thou art come to die:
Sound be thy sleeping, lass."
"Well, without lament or cry,
Mother, let me pass."

"What things on mould were best of all? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The apples reddening till they fall In the sun beside the convent wall. Let me pass."

"Whom on earth hast thou loved best? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)"

"Him that shared with me thy breast;
Thee; and a knight last year our guest.
He hath an heron to his crest.
Let me pass."

"What leavest thou of fame or hoard? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "My far-blown shame for thy reward; To my brother, gold to get him a sword. Let me pass."

"But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The hair he kissed to strangle him. Mother, let me pass."