I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.

On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time.
But it is never lost, my lord.
Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.

Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts,
buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.

I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed
and imagined all work had ceased.
In the morning I woke up
and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.

Gettin’ together to smile an’ rejoice,
An’ eatin’ an’ laughin’ with folks of your choice;
An’ kissin’ the girls an’ declarin’ that they
Are growin’ more beautiful day after day;
Chattin’ an’ braggin’ a bit with the men,
Buildin’ the old family circle again;
Livin’ the wholesome an’ old-fashioned cheer,
Just for awhile at the end of the year.
Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
And under the old roof we gather once more
Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
Mother’s a little bit grayer, that’s all.
Father’s a little bit older, but still
Ready to romp an’ to laugh with a will.
Here we are back at the table again
Tellin’ our stories as women an’ men.

Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;
Oh, but we’re grateful an’ glad to be there.
Home from the east land an’ home from the west,
Home with the folks that are dearest an’ best.
Out of the sham of the cities afar
We’ve come for a time to be just what we are.
Here we can talk of ourselves an’ be frank,
Forgettin’ position an’ station an’ rank.

Give me the end of the year an’ its fun
When most of the plannin’ an’ toilin’ is done;
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
Hear the old voices still ringin’ with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
See the old table with all of its chairs
An’ I’ll put soul in my Thanksgivin’ prayers.

NO easy matter ’tis to hold,
Against its owner’s will, the fleece
Who troubled by the itching smart
Of Cupid’s irritating dart,
Eager awaits some Jason bold
To grant release.
E’en dragon huge, or flaming steer,
When Jason’s loved will cause no fear.

Duennas, grating, bolt and lock,
All obstacles can naught avail;
Constraint is but a stumbling block;
For youthful ardour must prevail.
Girls are precocious nowadays,
Look at the men with ardent gaze,
And longings’ an infinity;
Trim misses but just in their teens
By day and night devise the means
To dull with subtlety to sleep
The Argus vainly set to keep
In safety their virginity.
Sighs, smiles, false tears, they’ll fain employ
An artless lover to decoy.
I’ll say no more, but leave to you,
Friend reader, to pronounce if true
What I’ve asserted when you have heard
How artful Kitty, caged her bird.

IN a small town in Italy,
The name of which I do not know,
Young Kitty dwelt, gay, pretty, free,
Varambon’s child.–Boccacio
Omits her mother’s name, which not
To you or me imports a jot.
At fourteen years our Kitty’s charms
Were all that could be wished–plump arms,
A swelling bosom; on her cheeks
Roses’ and lilies’ mingled streaks,
A sparkling eye–all these, you know,
Speak well for what is found below.
With such advantages as these
No virgin sure could fail to please,
Or lack a lover; nor did Kate;
But little time she had to wait;
One soon appeared to seal her fate.
Young Richard saw her, loved her, wooed her–
What swain I ask could have withstood her?
Soft words, caresses, tender glances,
The battery of love’s advances,
Soon lit up in the maiden’s breast
The flame which his own heart possessed,
Soon growing to a burning fire
Of love and mutual desire.
Desire for what? My reader knows,
Or if he does not may suppose,
And not be very wond’rous wise.
When youthful lovers mingle sighs,
Believe me, friend, I am not wrong,
For one thing only do they long.
One check deferred our lover’s bliss,
A thing quite natural, ’twas this:
The mother loved so well her child
That, fearful she might be beguiled,
She would not let her out of sight,
A single minute, day or night.
At mother’s apron string all day
Kate whiled the weary hours away,
And shared her bed all night. Such love
In parents we must all approve,
Though Catherine, I must confess,
In place of so much tenderness
More liberty would have preferred.
To little girls maternal care
In such excess is right and fair,
But for a lass of fourteen years,
For whom one need have no such fears,
Solicitude is quite absurd,
And only bores her. Kitty could
No moment steal, do what she would,
To see her Richard. Sorely vexed
She was, and he still more perplexed.
In spite of all he might devise
A squeeze, a kiss, quick talk of eyes
Was all he could obtain, no more.
Bread butterless, a sanded floor,
It seemed no better. Joy like this
Could not suffice, more sterling bliss
Our lovers wished, nor would stop short
Till they’d obtained the thing they sought.
And thus it came about. One day
By chance they met, alone, away
From jealous parents. “What’s the use;”
Said Richard, “of all our affection?
“Of love it is a rank abuse,
“And yields me nothing but dejection
“I see you without seeing you,
“Must always look another way,
“And if we meet I dare not stay,
“Must ev’ry inclination smother.
“I can’t believe your love is true;
“I’ll never own you really kind
“Unless some certain means you find
“For us to meet without your mother.”
Kate answered: “Were it not too plain
“How warm my love, another strain
“I would employ. In converse vain
“Let us not waste our moments few;
“But think what it were best to do.”
“If you will please me,” Robert said,
“You must contrive to change your bed,
“And have it placed–well, let me see–
“Moved to the outer gallery,
“Where you will be alone and free.
“We there can meet and chat at leisure
“While others sleep, nor need we fear,
“Of merry tales I have a treasure
“To tell, but cannot tell them here.”
Kate smiled at this for she knew well
What sort of tales he had to tell;
But promised she would do her best
And soon accomplish his request.
It was not easy, you’ll admit,
But love lends foolish maidens wit;
And this is how she managed it.
The whole night long she kept awake,
Snored, sighed and kicked, as one possessed,
That parents both could get not rest,
So much she made the settle shake.
This is not strange. A longing girl,
With thoughts of sweetheart in her head,
In bed all night will sleepless twirl.
A flea is in her ear, ’tis said.
The morning broke. Of fleas and heat
Kitty complained. “Let me entreat,
“O mother, I may put my bed
“Out in the gallery,” she said,
“‘Tis cooler there, and Philomel
“Who warbles in the neigh’bring dell
“Will solace me.” Ready consent
The simple mother gave, and went
To seek her spouse. “Our Kate, my dear,
“Will change her bed that she may hear
“The nightingale, and sleep more cool.”
“Wife,” said the good man, “You’re a fool,
“And Kate too with her nightingale;
“Don’t tell me such a foolish tale.
“She must remain. No doubt to-night
“Will fresher be. I sleep all right
“In spite of heat, and so can she.
“Is she more delicate than me?”
Incensed was Kate by this denial
After so promising a trial,
Nor would be beat, but firmly swore
To give more trouble than before.
That night again no wink she slept
But groaned and fretted, sighed and wept,
Upon her couch so tossed and turned,
The anxious mother quite concerned
Again her husband sought. “Our Kate
“To me seems greatly changed of late.
“You are unkind,” she said to him,
“To thwart her simple, girlish whim.
“Why may she not her bed exchange,
“In naught will it the house derange?
“Placed in the passage she’s as near
“To us as were she lying here.
“You do not love your child, and will
“With your unkindness make her ill.”
“Pray cease,” the husband cried, “to scold
“And take your whim. I ne’er could hold
“My own against a screaming wife;
“You’ll drive me mad, upon my life.
“Her belly-full our Kate may get
“Of nightingale or of linnet.”
The thing was settled. Kate obeyed,
And in a trice her bed was made,
And lover signalled. Who shall say
How long to both appeared that day,
That tedious day! But night arrived
And Richard too; he had contrived
By ladder, and a servant’s aid,
To reach the chamber of the maid.
To tell how often they embraced,
How changed in form their tenderness,
Would lead to nothing but a waste
Of time, my readers will confess.
The longest, most abstruse discourse
Would lack precision, want the force
Their youthful ardour to portray.
To understand there’s but one way–
Experience. The nightingale
Sang all night long his pleasing tale,
And though he made but little noise,
The lass was satisfied. Her joys
So exquisite that she averred
The other nightingale, the bird
Who warbles to the woods his bliss,
Was but an ass compared with this.
But nature could not long maintain
Of efforts such as these the strain;
Their forces spent, the lovers twain
In fond embrace fell fast asleep
Just as the dawn began to peep:
The father as he left his bed
By curiosity was led
To learn if Kitty soundly slept,
And softly to the passage crept.
“I’ll see the influence,” he said,
“Of nightingale and change of bed.”
With bated breath, upon tip toes,
Close to the couch he cautious goes
Where Kitty lay in calm repose.
Excessive heat had made all clothes
Unbearable. The sleeping pair
Had cast them off, and lay as bare
As our first happy parents were
In Paradise. But in the place
Of apple, in her willing hand
Kate firmly grasp the magic wand
Which served to found the human race,
The which to name were a disgrace,
Though dames the most refined employ it;
Desire it, and much enjoy it,
If good Catullus tells us true.
The father scarce believed his view,
But keeping in his bosom pent
His anger, to his wife he went,
And said, “Get up, and come with me.
“At present I can plainly see
“Why Kate had such anxiety
“To hear the nightingale, for she
“To catch the bird so well has planned
“That now she holds him in her hand.”
The mother almost wept for glee.
“A nightingale, oh! let me see.
“How large is he, and can he sing,
“And will he breed, the pretty thing?
“How did she catch him, clever child?”
Despite his grief the good man smiled.
“Much more than you expect you’ll see.
“But hold your tongue, and come with me;
“For if your chattering is heard,
“Away will fly the timid bird;
“And you will spoil our daughter’s game.”
Who was surprised? It was the dame.
Her anger burst into a flame
As she the nightingale espied
Which Kitty held; she could have cried,
And scolded, called her nasty slut,
And brazen hussey, bitch, and–but
Her husband stopped her. “What’s the use
“Of all your scolding and abuse?
“The mischief’s done, in vain may you
“From now till doomsday fret and stew,
“Misfortune done you can’t undo,
“But something may be done to mend:
“For notary this instant send,
“Bid holy priest and mayor attend.
“For their good offices I wait
“To set this nasty matter straight.”
As he discoursed, Richard awoke,
And seeing that the sun had broke,
These troubled words to Kitty spoke
“Alas, my love, ’tis broad day light,
“How can I now effect my flight?”
“All will go well,” rejoined the sire,
“I will not grumble, my just ire
“Were useless here; you have committed
“A wrong of which to be acquitted,
“Richard, there is one only way,
“My child you wed without delay.
“She’s well brought up, young, full of health
“If fortune has not granted wealth,
“Her beauty you do not deny,
“So wed her, or prepare to die.”
To hesitate in such a case
Would surely have been out of place
The girl he loved to take to wife,
Or in his prime to lose his life,
The point in truth needs no debate,
Nor did our Richard hesitate.
Besides, the most supreme delight
Of life he’d tasted one short night,
But one, in lovely Kitty’s arms;
Could he so soon resign her charms!
While Richard, pleased with his escape
From what he feared an awkward scrape,
Was dreaming of his happy choice,
Our Kitty, by her father’s voice
Awakened, from her hand let go
The cause of all her joy and woe,
And round her naked beauties wound
The sheet picked up from off the ground:
Meanwhile the notary appears
To put an end to all their fears.
They wrote, they signed, the sealed–and thus
The wedding ended free from fuss.
They left the happy couple there.
His satisfaction to declare,
Thus spoke their father to the pair:
“Take courage, children, have no care;
“The nightingale in cage is pent,
“May sing now to his heart’s content.”

EVEN as a bird sprays many-coloured fires,
The plumes of paradise, the dying light
Rays through the fevered air in misty spires
That vanish in the heights.

These myriad eyes that look on me are mine;
Wandering beneath them I have found again
The ancient ample moment, the divine,
The God-root within men.

For this, for this the lights innumerable
As symbols shine that we the true light win:
For every star and every deep they fill
Are stars and deeps within.

The factory siren tells workers time to go home
tells them the evening has begun.
When living with the tall man

whom I didn’t love, I would wander
the streets, dreaming of Italy.
Trekking the handful of avenues

with him, he would say look there
between pink cobblestones,
there’s manure like mortar.

The sweet smell of it Wednesday nights,
the night before auction,
when the misery of cows greets me

heading home through town.
Lake quiets, tired of my lies.
When will I tell truths again?

The siren. My love is home.
Nights, we stay in and X the days.

Dear Colette,
I want to write to you
about being a woman
for that is what you write to me.

I want to tell you how your face
enduring after thirty, forty, fifty. . .
hangs above my desk
like my own muse.

I want to tell you how your hands
reach out from your books
& seize my heart.

I want to tell you how your hair
electrifies my thoughts
like my own halo.

I want to tell you how your eyes
penetrate my fear
& make it melt.

I want to tell you
simply that I love you–
though you are “dead”
& I am still “alive.”

Suicides & spinsters–
all our kind!

Even decorous Jane Austen
never marrying,
& Sappho leaping,
& Sylvia in the oven,
& Anna Wickham, Tsvetaeva, Sara Teasdale,
& pale Virginia floating like Ophelia,
& Emily alone, alone, alone. . . .

But you endure & marry,
go on writing,
lose a husband, gain a husband,
go on writing,
sing & tap dance
& you go on writing,
have a child & still
you go on writing,
love a woman, love a man
& go on writing.
You endure your writing
& your life.

Dear Colette,
I only want to thank you:

for your eyes ringed
with bluest paint like bruises,
for your hair gathering sparks
like brush fire,
for your hands which never willingly
let go,
for your years, your child, your lovers,
all your books. . . .

Dear Colette,
you hold me
to this life.

Oft have I brooded on defeat and pain,
The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng.
These I ignore to-day and only long
To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain,
One clear, grief-shattering, triumphant song,
For all the victories of man’s high endeavor,
Palm-bearing, laurel deeds that live forever,
The splendor clothing him whose will is strong.
Hast thou beheld the deep, glad eyes of one
Who has persisted and achieved? Rejoice!
On naught diviner shines the all-seeing sun.
Salute him with free heart and choral voice,
‘Midst flippant, feeble crowds of spectres wan,
The bold, significant, successful man.

THERE are some powerful odours that can pass
Out of the stoppard flagon; even glass
To them is porous. Oft when some old box
Brought from the East is opened and the locks
And hinges creak and cry; or in a press
In some deserted house, where the sharp stress
Of odours old and dusty fills the brain;
An ancient flask is brought to light again,
And forth the ghosts of long-dead odours creep.
There, softly trembling in the shadows, sleep
A thousand thoughts, funereal chrysalides,
Phantoms of old the folding darkness hides,
Who make faint flutterings as their wings unfold,
Rose-washed and azure-tinted, shot with gold.

A memory that brings languor flutters here:
The fainting eyelids droop, and giddy Fear
Thrusts with both hands the soul towards the pit
Where, like a Lazarus from his winding-sheet,
Arises from the gulf of sleep a ghost
Of an old passion, long since loved and lost.

So I, when vanished from man’s memory
Deep in some dark and sombre chest I lie,
An empty flagon they have cast aside,
Broken and soiled, the dust upon my pride,
Will be your shroud, beloved pestilence!
The witness of your might and virulence,
Sweet poison mixed by angels; bitter cup
Of life and death my heart has drunken up!

How countlessly they congregate
O’er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!–

As if with keeness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,–

And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those starts like somw snow-white
Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.