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  _A YOUTH MOWING_

  THERE are four men mowing down by the Isar;

  I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, four

  Sharp breaths taken: yea, and I

  Am sorry for what's in store.

  The first man out of the four that's mowing

  Is mine, I claim him once and for all;

  Though it's sorry I am, on his young feet, knowing

  None of the trouble he's led to stall.

  As he sees me bringing the dinner, he lifts

  His head as proud as a deer that looks

  Shoulder-deep out of the corn; and wipes

  His scythe-blade bright, unhooks

  The scythe-stone and over the stubble to me.

  Lad, thou hast gotten a child in me,

  Laddie, a man thou'lt ha'e to be,

  Yea, though I'm sorry for thee.

  _QUITE FORSAKEN_

  WHAT pain, to wake and miss you!

  To wake with a tightened heart,

  And mouth reaching forward to kiss you!

  This then at last is the dawn, and the bell

  Clanging at the farm! Such bewilderment

  Comes with the sight of the room, I cannot tell.

  It is raining. Down the half-obscure road

  Four labourers pass with their scythes

  Dejectedly;--a huntsman goes by with his load:

  A gun, and a bunched-up deer, its four little feet

  Clustered dead.--And this is the dawn

  For which I wanted the night to retreat!

  _FORSAKEN AND FORLORN_

  THE house is silent, it is late at night, I am alone.

  From the balcony

  I can hear the Isar moan,

  Can see the white

  Rift of the river eerily, between the pines, under

  a sky of stone.

  Some fireflies drift through the middle air

  Tinily.

  I wonder where

  Ends this darkness that annihilates me.

  _FIREFLIES IN THE CORN_

  _She speaks._

  Look at the little darlings in the corn!

  The rye is taller than you, who think yourself

  So high and mighty: look how the heads are

  borne

  Dark and proud on the sky, like a number of

  knights

  Passing with spears and pennants and manly scorn.

  Knights indeed!--much knight I know will ride

  With his head held high-serene against the sky!

  Limping and following rather at my side

  Moaning for me to love him!--Oh darling rye

  How I adore you for your simple pride!

  And the dear, dear fireflies wafting in between

  And over the swaying corn-stalks, just above

  All the dark-feathered helmets, like little green

  Stars come low and wandering here for love

  Of these dark knights, shedding their delicate

  sheen!

  I thank you I do, you happy creatures, you dears

  Riding the air, and carrying all the time

  Your little lanterns behind you! Ah, it cheers

  My soul to see you settling and trying to

  climb

  The corn-stalks, tipping with fire the spears.

  All over the dim corn's motion, against the blue

  Dark sky of night, a wandering glitter, a

  swarm

  Of questing brilliant souls going out with their

  true

  Proud knights to battle! Sweet, how I warm

  My poor, my perished soul with the sight of

  you!

  _A DOE AT EVENING_

  As I went through the marshes

  a doe sprang out of the corn

  and flashed up the hill-side

  leaving her fawn.

  On the sky-line

  she moved round to watch,

  she pricked a fine black blotch

  on the sky.

  I looked at her

  and felt her watching;

  I became a strange being.

  Still, I had my right to be there with her,

  Her nimble shadow trotting

  along the sky-line, she

  put back her fine, level-balanced head.

  And I knew her.

  Ah yes, being male, is not my head hard-balanced,

  antlered?

  Are not my haunches light?

  Has she not fled on the same wind with me?

  Does not my fear cover her fear?

  IRSCHENHAUSEN

  _SONG OF A MAN WHO IS

  NOT LOVED_

  THE space of the world is immense, before me and

  around me;

  If I turn quickly, I am terrified, feeling space

  surround me;

  Like a man in a boat on very clear, deep water,

  space frightens and confounds me.

  I see myself isolated in the universe, and wonder

  What effect I can have. My hands wave under

  The heavens like specks of dust that are floating

  asunder.

  I hold myself up, and feel a big wind blowing

  Me like a gadfly into the dusk, without my know-

  ing

  Whither or why or even how I am going.

  So much there is outside me, so infinitely

  Small am I, what matter if minutely

  I beat my way, to be lost immediately?

  How shall I flatter myself that I can do

  Anything in such immensity? I am too

  Little to count in the wind that drifts me through.

  GLASHUeTTE

  _SINNERS_

  THE big mountains sit still in the afternoon light

  Shadows in their lap;

  The bees roll round in the wild-thyme with de-

  light.

  We sitting here among the cranberries

  So still in the gap

  Of rock, distilling our memories

  Are sinners! Strange! The bee that blunders

  Against me goes off with a laugh.

  A squirrel cocks his head on the fence, and

  wonders

  What about sin?--For, it seems

  The mountains have

  No shadow of us on their snowy forehead of

  dreams

  As they ought to have. They rise above us

  Dreaming

  For ever. One even might think that they love us.

  _Little red cranberries cheek to cheek,

  Two great dragon-flies wrestling;

  You, with your forehead nestling

  Against me, and bright peak shining to peak--_

  There's a love-song for you!--Ah, if only

  There were no teeming

  Swarms of mankind in the world, and we were

  less lonely!

  MAYRHOFEN

  _MISERY_

  OUT of this oubliette between the mountains

  five valleys go, five passes like gates;

  three of them black in shadow, two of them bright

  with distant sunshine;

  and sunshine fills one high valley bed,

  green grass shining, and little white houses

  like quartz crystals,

  little, but distinct a way off.

  Why don't I go?

  Why do I crawl about this pot, this oubliette,

  stupidly?

  Why don't I go?

  But where?

  If I come to a pine-wood, I can't say

  Now I am arrived!

  What are so many straight trees to me!

  STERZING

  _SUNDAY AFTERNOON IN

  ITALY_

  THE man and the maid go side by side

  With an interval of space bet
ween;

  And his hands are awkward and want to hide,

  She braves it out since she must be seen.

  When some one passes he drops his head

  Shading his face in his black felt hat,

  While the hard girl hardens; nothing is said,

  There is nothing to wonder or cavil at.

  Alone on the open road again

  With the mountain snows across the lake

  Flushing the afternoon, they are uncomfortable,

  The loneliness daunts them, their stiff throats

  ache.

  And he sighs with relief when she parts from him;

  Her proud head held in its black silk scarf

  Gone under the archway, home, he can join

  The men that lounge in a group on the wharf.

  His evening is a flame of wine

  Among the eager, cordial men.

  And she with her women hot and hard

  Moves at her ease again.

  _She is marked, she is singled out

  For the fire:

  The brand is upon him, look--you,

  Of desire.

  They are chosen, ah, they are fated

  For the fight!

  Champion her, all you women! Men, menfolk

  Hold him your light!

  Nourish her, train her, harden her

  Women all!

  Fold him, be good to him, cherish him

  Men, ere he fall.

  Women, another champion!

  This, men, is yours!

  Wreathe and enlap and anoint them

  Behind separate doors._

  GARGNANO

  _WINTER DAWN_

  GREEN star Sirius

  Dribbling over the lake;

  The stars have gone so far on their road,

  Yet we're awake!

  Without a sound

  The new young year comes in

  And is half-way over the lake.

  We must begin

  Again. This love so full

  Of hate has hurt us so,

  We lie side by side

  Moored--but no,

  Let me get up

  And wash quite clean

  Of this hate.--

  So green

  The great star goes!

  I am washed quite clean,

  Quite clean of it all.

  But e'en

  So cold, so cold and clean

  Now the hate is gone!

  It is all no good,

  I am chilled to the bone

  Now the hate is gone;

  There is nothing left;

  I am pure like bone,

  Of all feeling bereft.

  _A BAD BEGINNING_

  THE yellow sun steps over the mountain-top

  And falters a few short steps across the lake--

  Are you awake?

  See, glittering on the milk-blue, morning lake

  They are laying the golden racing-track of the

  sun;

  The day has begun.

  The sun is in my eyes, I must get up.

  I want to go, there's a gold road blazes before

  My breast--which is so sore.

  What?--your throat is bruised, bruised with my

  kisses?

  Ah, but if I am cruel what then are you?

  I am bruised right through.

  What if I love you!--This misery

  Of your dissatisfaction and misprision

  Stupefies me.

  Ah yes, your open arms! Ah yes, ah yes,

  You would take me to your breast!--But no,

  You should come to mine,

  It were better so.

  Here I am--get up and come to me!

  Not as a visitor either, nor a sweet

  And winsome child of innocence; nor

  As an insolent mistress telling my pulse's beat.

  Come to me like a woman coming home

  To the man who is her husband, all the rest

  Subordinate to this, that he and she

  Are joined together for ever, as is best.

  Behind me on the lake I hear the steamer drum-

  ming

  From Austria. There lies the world, and here

  Am I. Which way are you coming?

  _WHY DOES SHE WEEP?_

  HUSH then

  why do you cry?

  It's you and me

  the same as before.

  If you hear a rustle

  it's only a rabbit

  gone back to his hole

  in a bustle.

  If something stirs in the branches

  overhead, it will be a squirrel moving

  uneasily, disturbed by the stress

  of our loving.

  Why should you cry then?

  Are you afraid of God

  in the dark?

  I'm not afraid of God.

  Let him come forth.

  If he is hiding in the cover

  let him come forth.

  Now in the cool of the day

  it is we who walk in the trees

  and call to God "Where art thou?"

  And it is he who hides.

  Why do you cry?

  My heart is bitter.

  Let God come forth to justify

  himself now.

  Why do you cry?

  Is it Wehmut, ist dir weh?

  Weep then, yea

  for the abomination of our old righteousness,

  We have done wrong

  many times;

  but this time we begin to do right.

  Weep then, weep

  for the abomination of our past righteousness.

  God will keep

  hidden, he won't come forth.

  _GIORNO DEI MORTI_

  ALONG the avenue of cypresses

  All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices

  Of linen go the chanting choristers,

  The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .

  And all along the path to the cemetery

  The round dark heads of men crowd silently,

  And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully

  Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

  And at the foot of a grave a father stands

  With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;

  And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels

  With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels

  The coming of the chanting choristers

  Between the avenue of cypresses,

  The silence of the many villagers,

  The candle-flames beside the surplices.

  _ALL SOULS_

  THEY are chanting now the service of All the Dead

  And the village folk outside in the burying ground

  Listen--except those who strive with their dead,

  Reaching out in anguish, yet unable quite to

  touch them:

  Those villagers isolated at the grave

  Where the candles burn in the daylight, and the

  painted wreaths

  Are propped on end, there, where the mystery

  starts.

  The naked candles burn on every grave.

  On your grave, in England, the weeds grow.

  But I am your naked candle burning,

  And that is not your grave, in England,

  The world is your grave.

  And my naked body standing on your grave

  Upright towards heaven is burning off to you

  Its flame of life, now and always, till the end.

  It is my offering to you; every day is All Souls'

  Day.

  I forget you, have forgotten you.

  I am busy only at my burning,

  I am busy only at my life.

  But my feet are on your grave, planted.

  And when I lift my face, it is a flame that goes up

  To the other world, where
you are now.

  But I am not concerned with you.

  I have forgotten you.

  I am a naked candle burning on your grave.

  _LADY WIFE_

  AH yes, I know you well, a sojourner

  At the hearth;

  I know right well the marriage ring you wear,

  And what it's worth.

  The angels came to Abraham, and they stayed

  In his house awhile;

  So you to mine, I imagine; yes, happily

  Condescend to be vile.

  I see you all the time, you bird-blithe, lovely

  Angel in disguise.

  I see right well how I ought to be grateful,

  Smitten with reverent surprise.

  Listen, I have no use

  For so rare a visit;

  Mine is a common devil's

  Requisite.

  Rise up and go, I have no use for you

  And your blithe, glad mien.

  No angels here, for me no goddesses,

  Nor any Queen.

  Put ashes on your head, put sackcloth on

  And learn to serve.

  You have fed me with your sweetness, now I am sick,

  As I deserve.

  Queens, ladies, angels, women rare,

  I have had enough.

  Put sackcloth on, be crowned with powdery ash,

  Be common stuff.

  And serve now woman, serve, as a woman should,

  Implicitly.

  Since I must serve and struggle with the imminent

  Mystery.

  Serve then, I tell you, add your strength to mine

  Take on this doom.

  What are you by yourself, do you think, and what

  The mere fruit of your womb?

  What is the fruit of your womb then, you mother,

  you queen,

  When it falls to the ground?

  Is it more than the apples of Sodom you scorn so,

  the men

  Who abound?

  Bring forth the sons of your womb then, and put

  them

  Into the fire

  Of Sodom that covers the earth; bring them forth

  From the womb of your precious desire.

  You woman most holy, you mother, you being

  beyond

  Question or diminution,

  Add yourself up, and your seed, to the nought

  Of your last solution.

  _BOTH SIDES OF THE MEDAL_

  AND because you love me

  think you you do not hate me?

  Ha, since you love me

  to ecstasy

  it follows you hate me to ecstasy.

  Because when you hear me

  go down the road outside the house

  you must come to the window to watch me go,

  do you think it is pure worship?

  Because, when I sit in the room,

  here, in my own house,

  and you want to enlarge yourself with this friend of

  mine,

  such a friend as he is,

  yet you cannot get beyond your awareness of me

  you are held back by my being in the same world

  with you,

  do you think it is bliss alone?

  sheer harmony?

  No doubt if I were dead, you must

  reach into death after me,

  but would not your hate reach even more madly

  than your love?

  your impassioned, unfinished hate?

  Since you have a passion for me,

  as I for you,

  does not that passion stand in your way like a

  Balaam's ass?

  and am I not Balaam's ass

  golden-mouthed occasionally?

  But mostly, do you not detest my bray?

  Since you are confined in the orbit of me

  do you not loathe the confinement?

  Is not even the beauty and peace of an orbit

  an intolerable prison to you,

  as it is to everybody?

  But we will learn to submit

  each of us to the balanced, eternal orbit

  wherein we circle on our fate

  in strange conjunction.

  What is chaos, my love?

  It is not freedom.

  A disarray of falling stars coming to nought.

  _LOGGERHEADS_

  PLEASE yourself how you have it.

  Take my words, and fling

  Them down on the counter roundly;

  See if they ring.

  Sift my looks and expressions,

  And see what proportion there is

  Of sand in my doubtful sugar

  Of verities.

  Have a real stock-taking

  Of my manly breast;

  Find out if I'm sound or bankrupt,

  Or a poor thing at best.

  For I am quite indifferent

  To your dubious state,

  As to whether you've found a fortune

  In me, or a flea-bitten fate.

  Make a good investigation

  Of all that is there,

  And then, if it's worth it, be grateful--

  If not then despair.

  If despair is our portion

  Then let us despair.

  Let us make for the weeping willow.

  I don't care.

  _DECEMBER NIGHT_

  TAKE off your cloak and your hat

  And your shoes, and draw up at my hearth

  Where never woman sat.

  I have made the fire up bright;

  Let us leave the rest in the dark

  And sit by firelight.

  The wine is warm in the hearth;

  The flickers come and go.

  I will warm your feet with kisses