PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD

This is the house. On one side there is darkness,

On one side there is light.

Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns-
Oh, any number-it will still be night.

And here are echoing stairs to lead you downward
To long sonorous halls.

And here is spring forever at these windows,

With roses on the walls.

This is her room. On one side there is music-
On one side not a sound.

At one step she could move from love to silence,
Feel myriad darkness coiling round.

And here are balconies from which she heard you,
Your steady footsteps on the stair.

And here the glass in which she saw your shadow
As she unbound her hair.

Here is the room-with ghostly walls dissolving-
The twilight room in which she called you "lover";
And the floorless room in which she called you "friend".
So many times, in doubt, she ran between them!—
Through windy corridors of darkening end.

Here she could stand with one dim light above her,
And hear far music, like a sea in caverns,

Murmur away at hollowed walls of stone.

And here, in a roofless room where it was raining,

She bore the patient sorrow of rain alone.

Your words were walls which suddenly froze around her. Your words were windows-large enough for moonlight, Too small to let her through.

Your letters-fragrant cloisters faint with music.

The music that assuaged her there was you.

How many times she heard your step ascending,
Yet never saw your face!

She heard them turn again, ring slowly fainter,

Till silence swept the place.

Why had you gone? . . . The door, perhaps, mistaken. You would go elsewhere. The deep walls were shaken.

A certain rose-leaf, sent without intention,
Became, with time, a woven web of fire-
She wore it, and was warm.

A certain hurried glance, let fall at parting,
Became, with time, the flashings of a storm.

Yet there was nothing asked, no hint to tell you
Of secret idols carved in secret chambers
From all you did and said.

Nothing was done, until at last she knew you.
Nothing was known, till, somehow, she was dead.

How did she die? You say she died of poison.
Simple and swift. And much to be regretted.
You did not see her pass

So many thousand times from light to darkness,
Pausing so many times before her glass.

You did not see how many times she hurried
To lean from certain windows, vainly hoping,
Passionate still for beauty, remembered spring.
You did not know how long she clung to music,
You did not hear her sing.

Did she, then, make the choice, and step out bravely
From sound to silence-close, herself, those windows?
Or was it true, instead,

That darkness moved-for once-and so possessed her?
We'll never know, you say, for she is dead.

Zoë Akins

THE TRAGEDIENNE

A storm is riding on the tide;
Grey is the day and grey the tide,
Far-off the sea-gulls wheel and cry—
A storm draws near upon the tide.

A city lifts its minarets

To winds that from the desert sweep; And prisoned Arab women weep Below the domes and minarets.

Upon a hill in Thessaly

Stand broken columns in a line
About a cold forgotten shrine,
Beneath a moon in Thessaly.
But in the world there is no place
So desolate as your tragic face.

I AM THE WIND

I am the wind that wavers,
You are the certain land;
I am the shadow that passes
Over the sand.

I am the leaf that quivers,

You the unshaken tree;

You are the stars that are steadfast,

I am the sea.

You are the light eternal

Like a torch I shall die.

You are the surge of deep music,

I but a cry!

CONQUERED

O pale! O vivid! dear!

O disillusioned eyes

Forever near!

O dream, arise!

I will not turn away

From the face I loved again.
Your beauty may sway
My life with pain.

I will drink the wine you pour,
I will seek to put asunder

Our ways no more—

O love! O wonder!

THE WANDERER

The ships are lying in the bay,

The gulls are swinging round their spars; My soul as eagerly as they

Desires the margin of the stars.

So much do I love wandering,
So much I love the sea and sky,

That it will be a piteous thing
In one small grave to lie.

Richard Aldington

THE POPLAR

Why do you always stand there shivering Between the white stream and the road?

The people pass through the dust
On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars;

The wagoners go by at dawn;

The lovers walk on the grass path at night.

Stir from your roots-walk, poplar!
You are more beautiful than they are.

I know that the white wind loves you,
Is always kissing you and turning up
The white lining of your green petticoat.
The sky darts through you like blue rain,
And the grey rain drips on your flanks
And loves you.

And I have seen the moon

Slip his silver penny into your pocket
As you straightened your hair;

And the white mist curling and hesitating
Like a bashful lover about your knees.

I know you, poplar;

I have watched you since I was ten.

But if you had a little real love,

A little strength,

You would leave your nonchalant idle lovers

And go walking down the white road

Behind the wagoners.

There are beautiful beeches

Down beyond the hill.

Will you always stand there shivering?

LESBIA

Grow weary if you will, let me be sad.

Use no more speech now;

Let the silence spread gold hair above us,

Fold on delicate fold.

Use no more speech

You had the ivory of my life to carve.