Chapter I: AM here myself; as though this heave of effort

At starting other life, fulfilled my own: Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown

By all the blood of the rose-bush into being-- Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly To bring together two strange sparks, beget

Another life from our lives, so should send The innermost fire of my own dim soul out- spinning And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon me! That my completion of manhood should be the beginning

Another life from mine! For so it looks. The seed is purpose, blossom accident. The seed is all in all, the blossom lent To crown the triumph of this new descent.

Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so? The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire Fans out your petals for excess of flame, Till all your being smokes with fine desire?

Or are we kindled, you and I, to be One rose of wonderment upon the tree Of perfect life, and is our possible seed But the residuum of the ecstasy?

How will you have it?--the rose is all in all, Or the ripe rose-fruits of the luscious fall? The sharp begetting, or the child begot? Our consummation matters, or does it not?

To me it seems the seed is just left over From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience; Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the bush Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence.

Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive; For me it is more than enough if the flower un- close.

_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.

GLASHÜTTE

_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 between; 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 Until they glow.

_NEW YEAR'S EVE_

THERE are only two things now, The great black night scooped out And this fire-glow.

This fire-glow, the core, And we the two ripe pips That are held in store.

Listen, the darkness rings As it circulates round our fire. Take off your things.

Your shoulders, your bruised throat Your breasts, your nakedness! This fiery coat!

As the darkness flickers and dips, As the firelight falls and leaps From your feet to your lips!

_NEW YEAR'S NIGHT_

Now you are mine, to-night at last I say it; You're a dove I have bought for sacrifice, And to-night I slay it.

Here in my arms my naked sacrifice! Death, do you hear, in my arms I am bringing My offering, bought at great price.

She's a silvery dove worth more than all I've got. Now I offer her up to the ancient, inexorable God, Who knows me not.

Look, she's a wonderful dove, without blemish or spot! I sacrifice all in her, my last of the world, Pride, strength, all the lot.

All, all on the altar! And death swooping down Like a falcon. 'Tis God has taken the victim; I have won my renown.

_VALENTINE'S NIGHT_

You shadow and flame, You interchange, You death in the game!

Now I gather you up, Now I put you back Like a poppy in its cup.

And so, you are a maid Again, my darling, but new, Unafraid.

My love, my blossom, a child Almost! The flower in the bud Again, undefiled.

And yet, a woman, knowing All, good, evil, both In one blossom blowing.

_BIRTH NIGHT_

THIS fireglow is a red womb In the night, where you're folded up On your doom.

And the ugly, brutal years Are dissolving out of you, And the stagnant tears.

I the great vein that leads From the night to the source of you, Which the sweet blood feeds.

New phase in the germ of you; New sunny streams of blood Washing you through.

You are born again of me. I, Adam, from the veins of me The Eve that is to be.

What has been long ago Grows dimmer, we both forget, We no longer know.

You are lovely, your face is soft Like a flower in bud On a mountain croft.

This is Noël for me. To-night is a woman born Of the man in me.

_RABBIT SNARED IN THE NIGHT_

WHY do you spurt and sprottle like that, bunny? Why should I want to throttle you, bunny?

Yes, bunch yourself between my knees and lie still. Lie on me with a hot, plumb, live weight, heavy as a stone, passive, yet hot, waiting.

What are you waiting for? What are you waiting for? What is the hot, plumb weight of your desire on me? You have a hot, unthinkable desire of me, bunny.

What is that spark glittering at me on the unutterable darkness of your eye, bunny? The finest splinter of a spark that you throw off, straight on the tinder of my nerves!

It sets up a strange fire, a soft, most unwarrantable burning a bale-fire mounting, mounting up in me.

'Tis not of me, bunny. It was you engendered it, with that fine, demoniacal spark you jetted off your eye at me.

_I_ did not want it, this furnace, this draught-maddened fire which mounts up my arms making them swell with turgid, ungovernable strength.

'Twas not _I_ that wished it, that my fingers should turn into these flames avid and terrible that they are at this moment.

It must have been _your_ inbreathing, gaping desire that drew this red gush in me; I must be reciprocating _your_ vacuous, hideous passion.

It must be the want in you that has drawn this terrible draught of white fire up my veins as up a chimney.

It must be you who desire this intermingling of the black and monstrous fingers of Moloch in the blood-jets of your throat.

Come, you shall have your desire, since already I am implicated with you in your strange lust.

_PARADISE RE-ENTERED_

THROUGH the strait gate of passion, Between the bickering fire Where flames of fierce love tremble On the body of fierce desire:

To the intoxication, The mind, fused down like a bead, Flees in its agitation The flames' stiff speed:

At last to calm incandescence, Burned clean by remorseless hate, Now, at the day's renascence We approach the gate.

Now, from the darkened spaces Of fear, and of frightened faces, Death, in our awful embraces Approached and passed by;

We near the flame-burnt porches Where the brands of the angels, like torches Whirl,--in these perilous marches Pausing to sigh;

We look back on the withering roses, The stars, in their sun-dimmed closes, Where 'twas given us to repose us Sure on our sanctity;

Beautiful, candid lovers, Burnt out of our earthy covers, We might have nestled like plovers In the fields of eternity.

There, sure in sinless being, All-seen, and then all-seeing, In us life unto death agreeing, We might have lain.

But we storm the angel-guarded Gates of the long-discarded, Garden, which God has hoarded Against our pain.

The Lord of Hosts, and the Devil Are left on Eternity's level Field, and as victors we travel To Eden home.

Back beyond good and evil Return we. Eve dishevel Your hair for the bliss-drenched revel On our primal loam.

_SPRING MORNING_

AH, through the open door Is there an almond tree Aflame with blossom! --Let us fight no more.

Among the pink and blue Of the sky and the almond flowers A sparrow flutters. --We have come through,

It is really spring!--See, When he thinks himself alone How he bullies the flowers. --Ah, you and me

How happy we'll be!--See him He clouts the tufts of flowers In his impudence. --But, did you dream

It would be so bitter? Never mind It is finished, the spring is here. And we're going to be summer-happy And summer-kind.

We have died, we have slain and been slain, We are not our old selves any more. I feel new and eager To start again.

It is gorgeous to live and forget. And to feel quite new. See the bird in the flowers?--he's making A rare to-do!

He thinks the whole blue sky Is much less than the bit of blue egg He's got in his nest--we'll be happy You and I, I and you.

With nothing to fight any more-- In each other, at least. See, how gorgeous the world is Outside the door!

SAN GAUDENZIO

_WEDLOCK_

I

COME, my little one, closer up against me, Creep right up, with your round head pushed in my breast.

How I love all of you! Do you feel me wrap
you
Up with myself and my warmth, like a flame
round the wick?

And how I am not at all, except a flame that
mounts off you.
Where I touch you, I flame into being;--but is it
me, or you?

That round head pushed in my chest, like a nut
in its socket,
And I the swift bracts that sheathe it: those
breasts, those thighs and knees,

Those shoulders so warm and smooth: I feel
that I
Am a sunlight upon them, that shines them into
being.

But how lovely to be you! Creep closer in, that
I am more.
I spread over you! How lovely, your round head,
your arms,

Your breasts, your knees and feet! I feel that we Are a bonfire of oneness, me flame flung leaping round you, You the core of the fire, crept into me.

II

AND oh, my little one, you whom I enfold, How quaveringly I depend on you, to keep me alive, Like a flame on a wick!

I, the man who enfolds you and holds you close, How my soul cleaves to your bosom as I clasp you, The very quick of my being!

Suppose you didn't want me! I should sink down Like a light that has no sustenance And sinks low.

Cherish me, my tiny one, cherish me who enfold you. Nourish me, and endue me, I am only of you, I am your issue.

How full and big like a robust, happy flame When I enfold you, and you creep into me, And my life is fierce at its quick Where it comes off you!

III

MY little one, my big one, My bird, my brown sparrow in my breast. My squirrel clutching in to me; My pigeon, my little one, so warm So close, breathing so still.

My little one, my big one, I, who am so fierce and strong, enfolding you, If you start away from my breast, and leave me, How suddenly I shall go down into nothing Like a flame that falls of a sudden.

And you will be before me, tall and towering, And I shall be wavering uncertain Like a sunken flame that grasps for support.

IV

BUT now I am full and strong and certain With you there firm at the core of me Keeping me.

How sure I feel, how warm and strong and happy For the future! How sure the future is within me; I am like a seed with a perfect flower enclosed.

I wonder what it will be, What will come forth of us. What flower, my love?

No matter, I am so happy, I feel like a firm, rich, healthy root, Rejoicing in what is to come.

How I depend on you utterly My little one, my big one! How everything that will be, will not be of me, Nor of either of us, But of both of us.

V

AND think, there will something come forth from us. We two, folded so small together, There will something come forth from us. Children, acts, utterance Perhaps only happiness.

Perhaps only happiness will come forth from us. Old sorrow, and new happiness. Only that one newness.

But that is all I want. And I am sure of that. We are sure of that.

VI

AND yet all the while you are you, you are not me. And I am I, I am never you. How awfully distinct and far off from each other's being we are!

Yet I am glad. I am so glad there is always you beyond my scope, Something that stands over, Something I shall never be, That I shall always wonder over, and wait for, Look for like the breath of life as long as I live, Still waiting for you, however old you are, and I am, I shall always wonder over you, and look for you.

And you will always be with me. I shall never cease to be filled with newness, Having you near me.

_HISTORY_

THE listless beauty of the hour When snow fell on the apple trees And the wood-ash gathered in the fire And we faced our first miseries.

Then the sweeping sunshine of noon When the mountains like chariot cars Were ranked to blue battle--and you and I Counted our scars.

And then in a strange, grey hour We lay mouth to mouth, with your face Under mine like a star on the lake, And I covered the earth, and all space.

The silent, drifting hours Of morn after morn And night drifting up to the night Yet no pathway worn.

Your life, and mine, my love Passing on and on, the hate Fusing closer and closer with love Till at length they mate.

THE CEARNE

_SONG OF A MAN WHO HAS COME THROUGH_

NOT I, not I, but the wind that blows through me! A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time. If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me! If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift! If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed By the fine, fine wind that takes its course through the chaos of the world Like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted; If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge Driven by invisible blows, The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the Hesperides.

Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul, I would be a good fountain, a good well-head, Would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.

What is the knocking?
What is the knocking at the door in the night?
It is somebody wants to do us harm.

No, no, it is the three strange angels.
Admit them, admit them.

_ONE WOMAN TO ALL WOMEN_