STAMFORD, _May_, 1913.
CHANGE
Behold, the tides are awake!
Under the high moon's light, Broad bands of silver, they glitter and quake, Moving out into the night.
Off from the shore they slide, Out, out into the blue: And I am turned to a shimmering tide Flooding on outward to you!
HENGISTBURY HEAD, _Spring_, 1915.
TRANSFIGURATION
Two feet apart, straight-limbed on the heathered hill We lie, under the wavering haze Of the sun, even as two logs that lie still In the heart of a blaze.
Side by side we lie through the long Late noon together; On us the light wind stoops his strong, Hot, sweet scents of heather.
No word breaks the air that smothers, Lest we miss The dull heart-beat of the earth below each other's, And the soft kiss Of breathless heather upon heather, while the sun Beats on us encouraging the swiftening blood, Till up the limbs and through the ears it run, A thin, red singing flood.
Love hath put in me might, That was so weak; I am strong with light, My senses seek Something indefinable, afar; They go wandering, and return....
With the light drunk off a star They calmly burn, Even as the immense sun burns on us Till evening turns watery those beams of his; And, rising from that joyance onerous, I stoop a kiss Lighter than the balls of fluff The wind sways across the heath, Though each invisible, hot puff Scarce rocks a spray beneath.
I sit, and it is so still, Now wind and sun have gone home, I can almost hear distil The dew in the gloam.
And from the clear and cool Of the twilit air, That is still as a pool Iced over and bare, I catch at length The thought I have been searching for: Did I absorb the sun's or just your strength, Or Something More?
_Summer_, 1914.
PLAINT OF PIERROT ILL-USED
I am Pierrot, and was born On some February morn When through glistering rain shone down The full moon on Paris town.
(Ah the moonshine in my head!)
For, upon the fatal minute When the moon's heart changes in it And the tides their flow reverse, I, for better or for worse, Born was. (Better been born dead Than with moonwork in my head!)
Clown stood foster, but another Got me of Clown's wife my mother, And as suited my poor station, Thieving was made my profession: Doorsteps often were my bed (Frosty moonshine in my head).
Yet while Pierrot was a thief-- Miracle beyond belief, Chance fantastic as divine!-- I fell in with Columbine: Dark eyes, lips of mournful red (Dark-bright moonshine in my head).
At the corner of the street She and I by night would meet; Met, but never told our love, While th' ironic moon above In her reverie smiled, and shed Tranquil radiance round each head.
Till my father by a breath Stifled at the hands of Death, "--Since no other children were-- Assigned me as only heir."
(Silver sequins heaped and spread: Billowing silver in my head.)
So, in search of fitting knowledge, Poor Pierrot was sent to college, Where Pantaloon and Pantaloon In answerless riddles o' the moon Crammed more moonshine in his head.
Home, then, Pierrot by-and-by Hurried spent, resolved to sigh Headache, heartache, and the rest, Out on Columbine's white breast, White as the moon's cloudy bed (Hush the moonshine in my head).
But, while gone, had entered in Spangled, smiling Harlequin; Laughter cynic and unholy: "Pah! Pierrot's poor melancholy!"
Turned but not a word I said (Moons like swords within my head!)
Forth: but money burns so bright!
Let it burn, then, left and right: "Where, O where, is Punchinello?
Scaramouch too, that gay fellow?
A brisk life it is we'll lead: Drown the moonshine in my head!"
Midnight: Venus by an urn, Roses and rose lanterns burn, Wine, fount's purl, and mandoline....
Pulcinella waits within, Faithless she--but in her bed: No more moonlight in my head!
Ah!...
yet dawns a dreary morrow: 'Spend at ease, and owe in sorrow,'
With light purse to her begone, If but as a hanger-on!
(Dread and moonlight in my head.)
Home then: catch upon the way-- 'Harlequin fled yesterday.
Bankruptcy of his employ.'
Surging of relief and joy: Welcome then? past words unsaid?
Surge of moonlight through my head.
So on, beating, to her street: What sight Pierrot's eyes doth greet?
One coach at her door arrives, From the back another drives....
Strange! (mere moonlight in the head).
Pull the bell: is she within?
'I must see Miss Columbine.'
Maid with finger laid by nose, Better not inquire too close-- _Such puts bullets through the head!_
Now I wander back and forth; Pierrot goes east, south, west, north; Shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, Till the more acute beholders, Watching him, have hazarded,-- 'Touch of something in the head?'
I am Pierrot, and was born On some far forgotten morn When the cold moon on the pane Struck and, signless, 'gan to wane, When the tides their flow reversed; And I bear, uncured, accursed, Aching until I am dead, Moonlight, moonlight in my head!
DEVONSHIRE, _November_, 1916.
GIRL'S SONG FROM "THE TAILOR"[2]
[2] "The Tailor," opera-buffa in three acts, being Op. 10 of Bernard van Dieren.