Chapter I: Will Write Letters to

THE GRASS

I will write letters to my friend the grass,
I will sing all my songs to lilac flowers
Gather the spices in the airs that pass,
And wrap my heart close shrouded in the hours.

I dread man's huge impertinence; he creeps
Thro' the inviolate silences of Spring
Like a marauder, waking that which sleeps
To gather strength for lyric blossoming.

I will write all my letters to the grass.
The world shall be resolved into a cry
Faint as a little voice that cries Alas!
And I will laugh alone beneath the sky.

ONLY THIS

We need demand no further gift from Heaven,
We might dispense with documents and creeds,
If but this one great grace to us were given--
The strength to follow where our reason leads.

THE SURVIVOR

Beauty will crumble with tasking,
Love rarely lasts for a year,
Virtue is sold for the asking,
Bravery fades before fear.

Youth never lives till the morrow,
One thing of all is alive,
Joy cannot quench it, or sorrow,
Folly alone shall survive.

Folly, from cradle to burning,
Toys for the great and the small,
None shall escape her by learning--
Folly has rattles for all!

MEGAERA

Always to suffer so, to want and weep With woe that groweth every day more deep; To don the green robe of tormented scorn, And ever curse the hour that love was born! Furies, my Sisters! have you no surcease For me to whom no death shall bring release?

They name me Jealous One. They hate my name, The ages hold me high to endless shame; How, if I suffer so, does no one care And pity, for the wrath that I must bear? Gods! let me go, your service wrecks and sears, The vase must break that holds so many tears.

THE SONG OF MOKAI

He's dead, I watched him die.
He cast a spell on my mate,
They loved, and the moon whirled 'round the sky,
They mocked at my rage and hate.

Blood red from the burning sea
The sun rose, and I knew!
My soul whined wild little songs to me,
I did what I had to do.

I have taken the bone of his thigh,
I have fashioned it into a horn;
And I sing my soul's song, shrill and high,
And curse the day he was born.

TO THE GYPSY MAN

Is there no room in your gypsy heart
Where a woman's love might lie
Warm and sheltered, your prize and song,
As you wander beneath the sky?

No, for you say, "I'll carry no weight,
I must be free, be free;
I'll carry no love in my gypsy heart
To make a drag for me."

Little you know, then, love is the cloak
That shelters you from the storm;
Love makes the shoes for your gypsy feet,
Love is your coat so warm.

Though you take no purse and you take no staff
You cannot escape the load
Of a woman's longing and woman's love
That follows you down the road.

THERE IS NO DANGER IN DISDAIN

There is no danger in disdain,
No grief in perfidy;
The meek they are who taste of pain
And matchless misery.

The hearts who give, and giving, die,
Could they but learn the way
To take, and laugh and then deny,
They still might live their day.

THE PLAYMATE

Brown boy running on a wide wet beach,
Free as the water and the wind are free;
Eyes of an odalisque and skin of a peach,
O for such a playmate to play with me!--

Drenched with the sunshine of the long brave hours,
How we would tumble in the white wild spray;
Then, drowsy children, fall asleep like the flowers,
And wake keen and merry to a new clean day.

AFTERWARDS

You know how I came to you,
World beaten, tossed aside;
Ready for death at a hangman's hand,
Stript of all hope or pride.

Leaning, you gathered me up
Close to your great sweet heart,
Lulled me and told me to be a man,
Taught me your wonderful art.

Now I am very wise,
Proud with your love's true vow;
Glorious with power,--I am more than a man,
What will you do with me now!

THE OLD MAID

Ah, Heaven! How soon my body will be old! I powder and I perfume and I tire With the long wasting of my one desire. I choose fair colors, furs, and antique gold To draw men's eyes and hands, and yet how cold, How careless are their eyes. I see the fire Flame from my neighbor, and I can aspire To only friendship. I have tried the bold, The luring attitude, the timid mien, The boyish, wise, or simple, all in vain. I know the women laugh at me, but oh, How can I let my dreamed perfection go? I am a woman, I must have a man Only to ratify my nature's plan.

MADNESS?

They say I'm mad because I stare And look as tho' they were not there, Because I only speak when aught Occurs to me by way of thought.

Instead of serving Fashion's creeds, I cut my coat to fit my needs. I laugh at grief and only weep When noisy life disturbs my sleep.

My dreams are delicate and wild; Was ever wise man so beguiled?-- Mad, am I mad!--then pray that you May some day hope for madness too!

THE SCHOLAR

From what sweet masters have I fathomed doubt,
What love and laughter taught me to be blind;
How patient did they point the letters out
Latin and Greek to my bewildered mind.

Now I am very wise, I know the 'a'
The little 'a' of doubt's first faint distress
Then, letter perfect, I recall the way
Thro' all the alphabet of bitterness.

WISDOM'S SECRET

Coerced by Furies who persuaded me
That life was imminent with idleness,
Their jibes made mad, their lashes aided me
To grasp the accident of bitterness.

Come storm! I cried, come passion and despair,
For calm inhibits growth!--I called on fire
To sear my comfortable days, and wear
The nights to wastes of torment and desire.

Then pausing breathless, in a little wood
I met with Wisdom laughing in the sun;
She said, "Lie still, for idleness is good,
And grow in peace as I myself have done."

CAGED

Once I had wings--I had no heart to fly, They put me in a cage, I did not die. They tamed me, taught me tricks and bade me sing; I waited, bore it patiently; one thing I knew, that some day it might be The cage would open and I should be free. I waited endlessly,--at last the day! Faint with delight I thought to fly away, Ah, but the mockery of that open door!-- My wings were powerless, I could fly no more.

THE WIFE SPEAKS

Not all those women you have loved and left,
O my Beloved, can stir my jealousy;
Not the light loves which you forgot for me,
For my heart's fingers made by life most deft
Have mended all the rents their arrows cleft
And from their old enchantments set you free.
But one is my despair, and only she,
The one who loved you, hopeless and bereft.

How can I give as much, who hold your heart As she, unloved who gave with scorn of gain? So do the angels; at her name I smart And feel a sordid bargainer who gives For fair exchange; I cannot heal the pain, I am defeated by her while she lives.

THE ALTAR

Some take comfort from a star,
Thro' the slow grey surge of Time,
Some take joy from ruddy war,
Lust of conflict, heat of crime.

In these days of codes and creeds,
Gods may wander newly born,
Every day for each man's needs
Bringing blessings thro' the morn.

I will take a happy word,
Open heart and hand for play,
And a song which none have heard
For my altar of the day.

* * * * *

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Transcriber's Notes

In _The Chicago Tribune_ review for STARS OF THE DESERT by Laurence Hope, "she" may be a typo for "he." (Perhaps she has done for the Hindu poets what FitzGerald did)