monads. This new red rock in a waste of white rises against the day With shelter now, and with blandishment, since the winds have had their way And laid the desert horrific of silence and snow on the world of mankind, School now is the rock in this weary land the winter burns and makes blind.
SICKNESS
WAVING slowly before me, pushed into the dark, Unseen my hands explore the silence, drawing the bark Of my body slowly behind. Nothing to meet my fingers but the fleece of night Invisible blinding my face and my eyes! What if in their flight My hands should touch the door! What if I suddenly stumble, and push the door Open, and a great grey dawn swirls over my feet, before I can draw back! What if unwitting I set the door of eternity wide And am swept away in the horrible dawn, am gone down the tide Of eternal hereafter! Catch my hands, my darling, between your breasts. Take them away from their venture, before fate wrests The meaning out of them.
EVERLASTING FLOWERS
WHO do you think stands watching The snow-tops shining rosy In heaven, now that the darkness Takes all but the tallest posy? Who then sees the two-winged Boat down there, all alone And asleep on the snow's last shadow, Like a moth on a stone? The olive-leaves, light as gad-flies, Have all gone dark, gone black. And now in the dark my soul to you Turns back. To you, my little darling, To you, out of Italy. For what is loveliness, my love, Save you have it with me! So, there's an oxen wagon Comes darkly into sight: A man with a lantern, swinging A little light. What does he see, my darling Here by the darkened lake? Here, in the sloping shadow The mountains make? He says not a word, but passes, Staring at what he sees. What ghost of us both do you think he saw Under the olive trees? All the things that are lovely— The things you never knew— I wanted to gather them one by one And bring them to you. But never now, my darling Can I gather the mountain-tips From the twilight like
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