My heart is like a cleft pomegranate Bleeding crimson seeds And dripping them on the ground.

My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full, And its seeds are bursting from it.

But how is this other than a torment to me!

I, who am shut up, with broken crockery, In a dark closet!

Antic.i.p.ation

I have been temperate always, But I am like to be very drunk With your coming.

There have been times I feared to walk down the street Lest I should reel with the wine of you, And jerk against my neighbours As they go by.

I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, But my brain is noisy With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.

Vintage

I will mix me a drink of stars,-- Large stars with polychrome needles, Small stars jetting maroon and crimson, Cool, quiet, green stars.

I will tear them out of the sky, And squeeze them over an old silver cup, And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice.

It will lap and scratch As I swallow it down; And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, Coiling and twisting in my belly.

His snortings will rise to my head, And I shall be hot, and laugh, Forgetting that I have ever known a woman.

The Tree of Scarlet Berries

The rain gullies the garden paths And tinkles on the broad sides of gra.s.s blades.

A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.

Even so, I can see that it has red berries, A scarlet fruit, Filmed over with moisture.

It seems as though the rain, Dripping from it, Should be tinged with colour.

I desire the berries, But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.

Probably, too, they are bitter.

Obligation

Hold your ap.r.o.n wide That I may pour my gifts into it, So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them From falling to the ground.

I would pour them upon you And cover you, For greatly do I feel this need Of giving you something, Even these poor things.

Dearest of my Heart!

The Taxi

When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.

I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind.

Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge you away from me, And the lamps of the city p.r.i.c.k my eyes So that I can no longer see your face.

Why should I leave you, To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

The Giver of Stars

Hold your soul open for my welcoming.

Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me With its clear and rippled coolness, That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory.

Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, The life and joy of tongues of flame, And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, I may rouse the blear-eyed world, And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten.

The Temple

Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame.

Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew And vanished in the sunshine. How it came We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name.

From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew Together into fire. But we knew The winds would slap and quench it in their game.

And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks To treasure it, and placed them round about.

With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole, And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without, The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole.

Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success