Look! We Have Come Through! Part 5

She drips herself with water, and her shoulders Glisten as silver, they crumple up Like wet and falling roses, and I listen For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.

In the window full of sunlight Concentrates her golden shadow Fold on fold, until it glows as Mellow as the glory roses.

ICKING

_ROSES ON THE BREAKFAST TABLE_

JUST a few of the roses we gathered from the Isar Are fallen, and their mauve-red petals on the cloth Float like boats on a river, while other Roses are ready to fall, reluctant and loth.

She laughs at me across the table, saying I am beautiful. I look at the rumpled young roses And suddenly realise, in them as in me, How lovely the present is that this day discloses.

_I AM LIKE A ROSE_

I AM myself at last; now I achieve My very self. I, with the wonder mellow, Full of fine warmth, I issue forth in clear And single me, perfected from my fellow.

Here I am all myself. No rose-bush heaving Its limpid sap to culmination, has brought Itself more sheer and naked out of the green In stark-clear roses, than I to myself am brought.

_ROSE OF ALL THE WORLD_

I AM here myself; as though this heave of effort At starting other life, fulfilled my own: Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown

By all the blood of the rose-bush into being-- Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly To bring together two strange sparks, beget

Another life from our lives, so should send The innermost fire of my own dim soul out- spinning And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon me!

That my completion of manhood should be the beginning

Another life from mine! For so it looks.

The seed is purpose, blossom accident.

The seed is all in all, the blossom lent To crown the triumph of this new descent.

Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so?

The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire Fans out your petals for excess of flame, Till all your being smokes with fine desire?

Or are we kindled, you and I, to be One rose of wonderment upon the tree Of perfect life, and is our possible seed But the residuum of the ecstasy?

How will you have it?--the rose is all in all, Or the ripe rose-fruits of the luscious fall?

The sharp begetting, or the child begot?

Our consummation matters, or does it not?

To me it seems the seed is just left over From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience; Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the bush Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence.

Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive; For me it is more than enough if the flower un- close.

_A YOUTH MOWING_

THERE are four men mowing down by the Isar; I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, four Sharp breaths taken: yea, and I Am sorry for what's in store.

The first man out of the four that's mowing Is mine, I claim him once and for all; Though it's sorry I am, on his young feet, knowing None of the trouble he's led to stall.

As he sees me bringing the dinner, he lifts His head as proud as a deer that looks Shoulder-deep out of the corn; and wipes His scythe-blade bright, unhooks

The scythe-stone and over the stubble to me.

Lad, thou hast gotten a child in me, Laddie, a man thou'lt ha'e to be, Yea, though I'm sorry for thee.

_QUITE FORSAKEN_

WHAT pain, to wake and miss you!

To wake with a tightened heart, And mouth reaching forward to kiss you!

This then at last is the dawn, and the bell Clanging at the farm! Such bewilderment Comes with the sight of the room, I cannot tell.

It is raining. Down the half-obscure road Four labourers pa.s.s with their scythes Dejectedly;--a huntsman goes by with his load:

A gun, and a bunched-up deer, its four little feet Cl.u.s.tered dead.--And this is the dawn For which I wanted the night to retreat!

_FORSAKEN AND FORLORN_

THE house is silent, it is late at night, I am alone.

From the balcony I can hear the Isar moan, Can see the white Rift of the river eerily, between the pines, under a sky of stone.

Some fireflies drift through the middle air Tinily.

I wonder where Ends this darkness that annihilates me.

_FIREFLIES IN THE CORN_

_She speaks._ Look at the little darlings in the corn!

The rye is taller than you, who think yourself So high and mighty: look how the heads are borne Dark and proud on the sky, like a number of knights Pa.s.sing with spears and pennants and manly scorn.

Knights indeed!--much knight I know will ride With his head held high-serene against the sky!

Limping and following rather at my side Moaning for me to love him!--Oh darling rye How I adore you for your simple pride!

And the dear, dear fireflies wafting in between And over the swaying corn-stalks, just above All the dark-feathered helmets, like little green Stars come low and wandering here for love Of these dark knights, shedding their delicate sheen!

I thank you I do, you happy creatures, you dears Riding the air, and carrying all the time Your little lanterns behind you! Ah, it cheers My soul to see you settling and trying to climb The corn-stalks, tipping with fire the spears.

All over the dim corn's motion, against the blue Dark sky of night, a wandering glitter, a swarm Of questing brilliant souls going out with their true Proud knights to battle! Sweet, how I warm My poor, my perished soul with the sight of you!

_A DOE AT EVENING_

As I went through the marshes a doe sprang out of the corn and flashed up the hill-side leaving her fawn.

On the sky-line she moved round to watch, she p.r.i.c.ked a fine black blotch on the sky.