Intrigue

Thou art my love,And thou art the peace of sundownWhen the blue shadows soothe,And the grasses and the leaves sleepTo the song of the little brooks,Woe is me.

Thou art my love,And thou art a strormThat breaks black in the sky,And, sweeping headlong,Drenches and cowers each tree,And at the panting endThere is no soundSave the melancholy cry of a single owl--Woe is me!

Thou are my love,And thou art a tinsel thing,And I in my playBroke thee easily,And from the little fragmentsArose my long sorrow--Woe is me.

Thou art my love,And thou art a wary violet,Drooping from sun-caresses,Answering mine carelessly--Woe is me.

Thou art my love,And thou art the ashes of other men's love,And I bury my face in these ashes,And I love them--Woe is me.

Thou art my love,And thou art the beardOn another man's face--Woe is me.

Thou art my love,And thou art a temple,And in this temple is an altar,And on this altar is my heart--Woe is me.

Thou art my love,And thou art a wretch.Let these sacred love-lies choke thee,From I am come to where I know your liesas truthAnd you truth as lies--Woe is me.

Thou art my love,And thou art a priestess,And in they hand is a bloody dagger,And my doom comes to me surely--Woe is me.

Thou art my love,And thou art a skull with ruby eyes,And I love thee--Woe is me.

Thou art my love,And I doubt thee.And if peace came with thy murderThen would I murder--Woe is me.

Thou art my love,And thou art death,Aye, thou art deathBlack and yet black,But I love thee,I love thee--Woe, welcome woe, to me.

Love, forgive me if I wish you grief,For in your griefYou huddle to my breast,And for itWould I pay the price of your grief.

You walk among menAnd all men do not surrender,And thus I understandThat love reaches his handIn mercy to me.

He had your picture in his room,A scurvy traitor picture,And he smiled--Merely a fat complacence of men whoknow fine women--And thus I divided with himA part of my love.

Fool, not to know that thy little shoeCan make men weep!--Some men weep.I weep and I gnash,And I love the little shoe,The little, little shoe.

God give me medals,God give me loud honors,That I may strut before you, sweetheart,And be worthy of--The love I bear you.

Now let me crunch youWith full weight of affrighted love.I doubted you--I doubted you--And in this short doubtingMy love grew like a genieFor my further undoing.

Beware of my friends,Be not in speech too civil,For in all courtesyMy weak heart sees spectres,Mists of desireArising from the lips of my chosen;Be not civil.

The flower I gave thee onceWas incident to a stride,A detail of a gesture,But search those pale petalsAnd see engraven thereonA record of my intention.

As you thrust a bare arm backwardAnd made play with your hairAnd a comb, a silly gilt comb--Ah, God--that I should sufferBecause of the way a little finger moved.

Once I saw thee idly rocking--Idly rocking--And chattering girlishly to other girls,Bell-voiced, happy,Careless with the stout heart of unscarredwomanhood,And life to thee was all light melody.I thought of the great storms of love as Iknew it,Torn, miserable, and ashamed of my opensorrow,I thought of the thunders that lived in myhead,And I wish to be an ogre,And hale and haul my beloved to a castle,And make her mourn with my mourning.

Tell me why, behind thee,I see always the shadow of another lover?Is it real,Or is this the thrice damned memory of abetter happiness?Plague on him if he be dead,Plague on him if he be alive--A swinish numskullTo intrude his shadeAlways between me and my peace!

And yet I have seen thee happy with me.I am no foolTo poll stupidly into iron.I have heard your quick breathsAnd seen your arms writhe toward me;At those times--God help us--I was impelled to be a grand knight,And swagger and snap my fingers,And explain my mind finely.Oh, lost sweetheart,I would that I had not been a grand knight.I said: "Sweetheart."Thou said'st: "Sweetheart."And we preserved an admirable mimicryWithout heeding the drip of the bloodFrom my heart.

I heard thee laugh,And in this merrimentI defined the measure of my pain;I knew that I was alone,Alone with love,Poor shivering love,And he, little sprite,Came to watch with me,And at midnight,We were like two creatures by a dead camp-fire.

I wonder if sometimes in the dusk,When the brave lights that gild thyeveningsHave not yet been touched with flame,I wonder if sometimes in the duskThou rememberest a time,A time when thou loved meAnd our love was to thee thy all?Is the memory rubbish now?An old gownWorn in an age of other fashions?Woe is me, oh, lost one,For that love is now to meA supernal dream,White, white, white with many suns.

Love met me at noonday,--Reckless imp,To leave his shaded nightsAnd brave the glare,--And I saw him then plainlyFor a bungler,A stupid, simpering, eyeless bungler,Breaking the hearts of brave peopleAs the snivelling idiot-boy cracks his bowl,And I cursed him,Cursed him to and fro, back and forth,Into all the silly mazes of his mind,But in the endHe laughed and pointed to my breast,Where a heart still beat for thee, beloved.

I have seen thy face aflameFor love of me,Thy fair arms go mad,Thy lips tremble and mutter and rave.And--surely--This should leave a man content?Thou lovest not me now,But thou didst love me,And in loving me onceThou gavest me an eternal privilege,For I can think of thee.