The girl in the room beneath Before going to bed Strums on a mandolin The three simple tunes she knows. How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels! When she has finished them several times She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.
I stood for a long while before the shop window Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk. The building was a tower before me, Time was loud behind me, Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees; And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless, Stitched in a golden sky By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust.
The first bell is silver, And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time. The second bell is crimson, And I think of a holiday night, with rockets Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars. The third bell is saffron and slow, And I behold a long sunset over the sea With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades. The fourth bell is color of bronze, I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk: Muffled crackings run in the ice, Trees creak, birds fly. The fifth bell is cold clear azure, Delicately tinged with green: One golden star hangs melting in it, And towards this, sleepily, I go. The sixth bell is as if a pebble Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . . Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.
On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery, Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage; And talkng constrainedly of this and that We refrained from looking at the child’s coffin on the seat before us. When we reached the cemetery We found that the thin snow on the grass Was already transparent with rain; And boards had been laid upon it That we might walk without wetting our feet. When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles In many lengths along a wall I was dissappointed to find That I could not play music upon them: I ran my hand lightly across them And they fell, tinkling. I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life Will not be too great. It is now two hours since I left you, And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands. And though since then I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets, And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground Under the trees, I still remember the sound of your laughter. How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you Even as long as this? Will the dust braid your hair?
The day opens with the brown light of snowfall And past the window snowflakes fall and fall. I sit in my chair all day and work and work Measuring words against each other. I open the piano and play a tune But find it does not say what I feel, I grow tired of measuring words against each other, I grow tired of these four walls, And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter And named her after your first sweetheart, And you, who break your heart, far away, In the confusion and savagery of a long war, And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter, Will soon go south. The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light Past my window, And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge. This alone comes to me out of the world outside As I measure word with word.
Many things perplex me and leave me troubled, Many things are locked away in the white book of stars Never to be opened by me. The starr’d leaves are silently turned, And the mooned leaves; And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death. Perplexed and troubled, I light a small light in a small room, The lighted walls come closer to me, The familiar pictures are clear. I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written, And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming From I know not where. How many times have I sat here, How many times will I sit here again, Thinking these same things over and over in solitude As a child says over and over The first word he has learned to say. This girl gave her heart to me, And this, and this. This one looked at me as if she loved me, And silently walked away. This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again. Shall I count them for you upon my fingers? Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads? Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white, And arrange them for you in a wide bowl To be set in sunlight? See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you— ‘This girl gave her heart to me And this, and this, . . . ! And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them, When I think their names, And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown And will lie, at last, forgotten, Under the snow. It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling, And no wind grieves the walls. In the small world of light around the arc-lamp A swarm of snowflakes falls and falls. The street grows silent. The last stranger passes. The sound of his feet, in the snow, is indistinct. What forgotten sadness is it, on a night like this, Takes possession of my heart? Why do I think of a camellia tree in a southern garden, With pink blossoms among dark leaves, Standing, surprised, in the snow? Why do I think of spring? The snowflakes, helplessly veering, Fall silently past my window; They come from darkness and enter darkness. What is it in my heart is surprised and bewildered Like that camellia tree, Beautiful still in its glittering anguish? And spring so far away!
As I walked through the lamplit gardens, On the thin white crust of snow, So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune, So clearly were my eyes fixed On the face of this grief which has come to me, That I did not notice the beautiful pale colouring Of lamplight on the snow; Nor the interlaced long blue shadows of trees; And yet these things were there, And the white lamps, and the orange lamps, and the lamps of lilac were there, As I have seen them so often before; As they will be so often again Long after my grief is forgotten. And still, though I know this, and say this, it cannot console me.
How many times have we been interrupted Just as I was about to make up a story for you! One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree. Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself A little tent of light in the darkness! And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain,— We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us And the plat-plat of drops on the window, And we ran to watch the rain Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field! Or at other times it was because we saw a star Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off, Among pine-dark hills; Or because we found a crimson eft Darting in the cold grass! These things interrupted us and left us wondering; And the stories, whatever they might have been, Were never told. A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing? A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb? A love-story of long ago? Some day, just as we are beginning again, Just as we blow the first sweet note, Death itself will interrupt us.
My heart is an old house, and in that forlorn old house, In the very centre, dark and forgotten, Is a locked room where an enchanted princess Lies sleeping. But sometimes, in that dark house, As if almost from the stars, far away, Sounds whisper in that secret room— Faint voices, music, a dying trill of laughter? And suddenly, from her long sleep, The beautiful princess awakes and dances. Who is she? I do not know. Why does she dance? Do not ask me!— Yet to-day, when I saw you, When I saw your eyes troubled with the trouble of happiness, And your mouth trembling into a smile, And your fingers pull shyly forward,— Softly, in that room, The little princess arose And danced; And as she danced the old house gravely trembled With its vague and delicious secret.
Like an old tree uprooted by the wind And flung down cruelly With roots bared to the sun and stars And limp leaves brought to earth— Torn from its house— So do I seem to myself When you have left me.
The music of the morning is red and warm; Snow lies against the walls; And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight Pigeons huddle against the wind. The music of evening is attenuated and thin— The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid; The crying of a violin. Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west, The delicate lights begin to twinkle On the dusky arches of the bridge: In the green sky a long cloud, A smouldering wave of smoky crimson, Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed, Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant, Sings the first star.
“The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.”