Snap-Dragon

SHE bade me follow to her garden, whereThe mellow sunlight stood as in a cupBetween the old grey walls; I did not dareTo raise my face, I did not dare look up,Lest her bright eyes like sparrows should fly inMy windows of discovery, and shrill "Sin."

So with a downcast mien and laughing voiceI followed, followed the swing of her white dressThat rocked in a lilt along: I watched the poiseOf her feet as they flew for a space, then paused topressThe grass deep down with the royal burden of her:And gladly I'd offered my breast to the tread of her.

"I like to see," she said, and she crouched her down,She sunk into my sight like a settling bird;And her bosom couched in the confines of her gownLike heavy birds at rest there, softly stirredBy her measured breaths: "I like to see," said she,"The snap-dragon put out his tongue at me."

She laughed, she reached her hand out to the flower,Closing its crimson throat. My own throat in herpowerStrangled, my heart swelled up so fullAs if it would burst its wine-skin in my throat,Choke me in my own crimson. I watched her pullThe gorge of the gaping flower, till the blood didfloat

Over my eyes, and I was blind--Her large brown hand stretched overThe windows of my mind;And there in the dark I did discoverThings I was out to find:My Grail, a brown bowl twinedWith swollen veins that met in the wrist,Under whose brown the amethystI longed to taste. I longed to turnMy heart's red measure in her cup,I longed to feel my hot blood burnWith the amethyst in her cup.

Then suddenly she looked up,And I was blind in a tawny-gold day,Till she took her eyes away.So she came down from aboveAnd emptied my heart of love.So I held my heart aloftTo the cuckoo that hung like a dove,And she settled soft

It seemed that I and the morning worldWere pressed cup-shape to take this reiverBird who was weary to have furledHer wings in us,As we were weary to receive her.

This bird, this rich,Sumptuous central grain,This mutable witch,This one refrain,This laugh in the fight,This clot of night,This core of delight.

She spoke, and I closed my eyesTo shut hallucinations out.I echoed with surpriseHearing my mere lips shoutThe answer they did devise.

Again I saw a brown bird hoverOver the flowers at my feet;I felt a brown bird hoverOver my heart, and sweetIts shadow lay on my heart.I thought I saw on the cloverA brown bee pulling apartThe closed flesh of the cloverAnd burrowing in its heart.

She moved her hand, and againI felt the brown bird coverMy heart; and thenThe bird came down on my heart,As on a nest the roverCuckoo comes, and shoves overThe brim each careful partOf love, takes possession, and settles her down,With her wings and her feathers to drownThe nest in a heat of love.

She turned her flushed face to me for the glintOf a moment. "See," she laughed, "if you alsoCan make them yawn." I put my hand to the dintIn the flower's throat, and the flower gaped widewith woe.She watched, she went of a sudden intensely still,She watched my hand, to see what I would fulfil.

I pressed the wretched, throttled flower betweenMy fingers, till its head lay back, its fangsPoised at her. Like a weapon my hand was whiteand keen,And I held the choked flower-serpent in its pangsOf mordant anguish, till she ceased to laugh,Until her pride's flag, smitten, cleaved down to thestaff.

She hid her face, she murmured between her lipsThe low word "Don't." I let the flower fall,But held my hand afloat towards the slipsOf blossom she fingered, and my fingers allPut forth to her: she did not move, nor I,For my hand like a snake watched hers, that couldnot fly.

Then I laughed in the dark of my heart, I did exultLike a sudden chuckling of music. I bade her eyesMeet mine, I opened her helpless eyes to consultTheir fear, their shame, their joy that underliesDefeat in such a battle. In the dark of her eyesMy heart was fierce to make her laughter rise.

Till her dark deeps shook with convulsive thrills, andthe darkOf her spirit wavered like water thrilled with light;And my heart leaped up in longing to plunge its starkFervour within the pool of her twilight,Within her spacious soul, to grope in delight.

And I do not care, though the large hands of revengeShall get my throat at last, shall get it soon,If the joy that they are searching to avengeHave risen red on my night as a harvest moon,Which even death can only put out for me;And death, I know, is better than not-to-be.