Poems — New Poems
EARLY APOLLO
As when at times there breaks through branches bare A morning vibrant with the breath of spring, About this poet-head a splendour rare Transforms it almost to a mortal thing.
There is as yet no shadow in his glance, Too cool his temples for the laurel's glow;
But later o'er those marble brows, perchance, A rose-garden with bushes tall will grow, And single petals one by one will fall O'er the still mouth and break its silent thrall, --The mouth that trembles with a dawning smile As though a song were rising there the while.
THE TOMB OF A YOUNG GIRL
We still remember!
The same as of yore All that has happened once again must be.
As grows a lemon-tree upon the shore-- It was like that--your light, small breasts you bore, And his blood's current coursed like the wild sea.
That god-- who was the wanderer, the slim Despoiler of fair women; he--the wise,-- But sweet and glowing as your thoughts of him Who cast a shadow over your young limb While bending like your arched brows o'er your eyes.
THE POET
You Hour!
From me you ever take your flight, Your swift wings wound me as they whir along;
Without you void would be my day and night, Without you I'll not capture my great song.
I have no earthly spot where I can live, I have no love, I have no household fane, And all the things to which myself I give Impoverish me with richness they attain.
THE PANTHER
His weary glance, from passing by the bars, Has grown into a dazed and vacant stare;
It seems to him there are a thousand bars And out beyond those bars the empty air.
The pad of his strong feet, that ceaseless sound Of supple tread behind the iron bands, Is like a dance of strength circling around, While in the circle, stunned, a great will stands.
But there are times the pupils of his eyes Dilate, the strong limbs stand alert, apart, Tense with the flood of visions that arise Only to sink and die within his heart.
GROWING BLIND
Among all the others there sat a guest Who sipped her tea as if one apart, And she held her cup not quite like the rest;
Once she smiled so it pierced one's heart.
When the group of people arose at last And laughed and talked in a merry tone, As lingeringly through the rooms they passed I saw that she followed alone.
Tense and still like one who to sing must rise Before a throng on a festal night She lifted her head, and her bright glad eyes Were like pools which reflected light.
She followed on slowly after the last As though some object must be passed by, And yet as if were it once but passed She would no longer walk but fly.
THE SPANISH DANCER
As a lit match first flickers in the hands Before it flames, and darts out from all sides Bright, twitching tongues, so, ringed by growing bands Of spectators--she, quivering, glowing stands Poised tensely for the dance--then forward glides And suddenly becomes a flaming torch.
Her bright hair flames, her burning glances scorch, And with a daring art at her command Her whole robe blazes like a fire-brand From which is stretched each naked arm, awake, Gleaming and rattling like a frightened snake.
And then, as though the fire fainter grows, She gathers up the flame--again it glows, As with proud gesture and imperious air She flings it to the earth; and it lies there Furiously flickering and crackling still-- Then haughtily victorious, but with sweet Swift smile of greeting, she puts forth her will And stamps the flames out with her small firm feet.
OFFERING
My body glows in every vein and blooms To fullest flower since I first knew thee, My walk unconscious pride and power assumes;
Who art thou then--thou who awaitest me?
When from the past I draw myself the while I lose old traits as leaves of autumn fall;
I only know the radiance of thy smile, Like the soft gleam of stars, transforming all.
Through childhood's years I wandered unaware Of shimmering visions my thoughts now arrests To offer thee, as on an altar fair That's lighted by the bright flame of thy hair And wreathéd by the blossoms of thy breasts.
LOVE SONG
When my soul touches yours a great chord sings!
How shall I tune it then to other things?
O!
That some spot in darkness could be found That does not vibrate whene'er your depths sound.
But everything that touches you and me Welds us as played strings sound one melody.
Where is the instrument whence the sounds flow?
And whose the master-hand that holds the bow?
O!
Sweet song-- ARCHAIC TORSO OF APOLLO
We cannot fathom his mysterious head, Through the veiled eyes no flickering ray is sent: But from his torso gleaming light is shed As from a candelabrum; inward bent His glance there glows and lingers.
Otherwise The round breast would not blind you with its grace, Nor could the soft-curved circle of the thighs Steal to the arc whence issues a new race.
Nor could this stark and stunted stone display Vibrance beneath the shoulders heavy bar, Nor shine like fur upon a beast of prey, Nor break forth from its lines like a great star-- There is no spot that does not bind you fast And transport you back, back to a far past.
THE BOOK OF HOURS
_The Book of A Monk's Life_
