I have gone about the house, gone up and down As a man does who has published a new book Or a young girl dressed out in her new gown, And though I have turned the talk by hook or crook Until her praise should be the uppermost theme, A woman spoke of some new tale she had read, A man confusedly in a half dream As though some other name ran in his head.

She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.

I will talk no more of books or the long war But walk by the dry thorn until I have found Some beggar sheltering from the wind, and there Manage the talk until her name come round.

If there be rags enough he will know her name And be well pleased remembering it, for in the old days, Though she had young men's praise and old men's blame, Among the poor both old and young gave her praise.

THE PEOPLE

'What have I earned for all that work,' I said, 'For all that I have done at my own charge?

The daily spite of this unmannerly town, Where who has served the most is most defamed, The reputation of his lifetime lost Between the night and morning. I might have lived, And you know well how great the longing has been, Where every day my footfall should have lit In the green shadow of Ferrara wall; Or climbed among the images of the past-- The unperturbed and courtly images-- Evening and morning, the steep street of Urbino To where the d.u.c.h.ess and her people talked The stately midnight through until they stood In their great window looking at the dawn; I might have had no friend that could not mix Courtesy and pa.s.sion into one like those That saw the wicks grow yellow in the dawn; I might have used the one substantial right My trade allows: chosen my company, And chosen what scenery had pleased me best.'

Thereon my phoenix answered in reproof, 'The drunkards, pilferers of public funds, All the dishonest crowd I had driven away, When my luck changed and they dared meet my face, Crawled from obscurity, and set upon me Those I had served and some that I had fed; Yet never have I, now nor any time, Complained of the people.'

All I could reply Was: 'You, that have not lived in thought but deed, Can have the purity of a natural force, But I, whose virtues are the definitions Of the a.n.a.lytic mind, can neither close The eye of the mind nor keep my tongue from speech.'

And yet, because my heart leaped at her words, I was abashed, and now they come to mind After nine years, I sink my head abashed.

HIS PHOENIX

There is a queen in China, or maybe it's in Spain, And birthdays and holidays such praises can be heard Of her unblemished lineaments, a whiteness with no stain, That she might be that sprightly girl who was trodden by a bird; And there's a score of d.u.c.h.esses, surpa.s.sing womankind, Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day.

The young men every night applaud their Gaby's laughing eye, And Ruth St. Denis had more charm although she had poor luck, From nineteen hundred nine or ten, Pavlova's had the cry, And there's a player in the States who gathers up her cloak And flings herself out of the room when Juliet would be bride With all a woman's pa.s.sion, a child's imperious way, And there are--but no matter if there are scores beside: I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day.

There's Margaret and Marjorie and Dorothy and Nan, A Daphne and a Mary who live in privacy; One's had her fill of lovers, another's had but one, Another boasts, 'I pick and choose and have but two or three.'

If head and limb have beauty and the instep's high and light, They can spread out what sail they please for all I have to say, Be but the breakers of men's hearts or engines of delight: I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day.

There'll be that crowd to make men wild through all the centuries, And maybe there'll be some young belle walk out to make men wild Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies, But not the exact likeness, the simplicity of a child, And that proud look as though she had gazed into the burning sun, And all the shapely body no t.i.ttle gone astray, I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet G.o.d's will be done, I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day.

A THOUGHT FROM PROPERTIUS

She might, so n.o.ble from head To great shapely knees, The long flowing line, Have walked to the altar Through the holy images At Pallas Athene's side, Or been fit spoil for a centaur Drunk with the unmixed wine.

BROKEN DREAMS

There is grey in your hair.

Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath When you are pa.s.sing; But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing Because it was your prayer Recovered him upon the bed of death.

For your sole sake--that all heart's ache have known, And given to others all heart's ache, From meagre girlhood's putting on Burdensome beauty--for your sole sake Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom, So great her portion in that peace you make By merely walking in a room.

Your beauty can but leave among us Vague memories, nothing but memories.

A young man when the old men are done talking Will say to an old man, 'Tell me of that lady The poet stubborn with his pa.s.sion sang us When age might well have chilled his blood.'

Vague memories, nothing but memories, But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed.

The certainty that I shall see that lady Leaning or standing or walking In the first loveliness of womanhood, And with the fervour of my youthful eyes, Has set me muttering like a fool.

You are more beautiful than any one And yet your body had a flaw: Your small hands were not beautiful, And I am afraid that you will run And paddle to the wrist In that mysterious, always br.i.m.m.i.n.g lake Where those that have obeyed the holy law Paddle and are perfect; leave unchanged The hands that I have kissed For old sakes' sake.

The last stroke of midnight dies.

All day in the one chair From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged In rambling talk with an image of air: Vague memories, nothing but memories.

A DEEP-SWORN VOW

Others because you did not keep That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine; Yet always when I look death in the face, When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, Suddenly I meet your face.

PRESENCES

This night has been so strange that it seemed As if the hair stood up on my head.

From going-down of the sun I have dreamed That women laughing, or timid or wild, In rustle of lace or silken stuff, Climbed up my creaking stair. They had read All I had rhymed of that monstrous thing Returned and yet unrequited love.

They stood in the door and stood between My great wood lecturn and the fire Till I could hear their hearts beating: One is a harlot, and one a child That never looked upon man with desire, And one it may be a queen.

THE BALLOON OF THE MIND

Hands, do what you're bid; Bring the balloon of the mind That bellies and drags in the wind Into its narrow shed.

TO A SQUIRREL AT KYLE-NA-GNO

Come play with me; Why should you run Through the shaking tree As though I'd a gun To strike you dead?

When all I would do Is to scratch your head And let you go.