Chapter I: AM beset by liking so many people

What can I do but hide my face away?-- Lest, looking up in love, I see no eyes or lids In the gleaming whirl of day, Lest, reaching for the fingers of love, I know not which are they, Lest the dear-lipped multitude, Kissing me, choke me dead!--

O green eyes in the breakers, White heave unquieted, What can I do but dive again, again--again-- To hide my head!

ANNE KNISH _Opus 135_

IN a tomb of Argolis, Under an arch of great stones, Where my eyes were sightless, groping, I touched this figment of clay.

Forgotten vase of immemorial Greece, Colorless form! I have entered to the blind dark Of the tomb where you have slept forever And with the dreams of my importunate hands I touch you in the profound darkness.

You are cold and estranged; Yet the ends of my fingers cling to your porous surface. You are thin and very tall; My palm can cover your mouth. Your lip curves but a little; Around your throat My two hands meet, And then part as I follow the swelling Rhythm that downward widens, And I pass around and under, And the returning line Ebbs home.

Beneath your feet I touch cold marble; My hand returns To sleep upon your breast Dreaming it warm.

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 79_

ONLY the wise can see me in the mist,
For only lovers know that I am here
After his piping, shall the organist
Be portly and appear?

Pew after pew,
Wave after wave . . .
Shall the digger dig and then undo
His own dear grave?

Hear me in the playing
Of a big brass band . . .
See me, straying
With children hand in hand . . .

Smell me, a dead fish . . .
Taste me, a rotten tree. . . .
Someday touch me, all you wish,
In the wide sea.

End of Project Gutenberg's Spectra, by Arthur Ficke and Witter Bynner