anthology of massachusetts poets(马萨诸赛诗人)-第9节
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eyelids love the dark Where never a light peeps through。
What！open…eyed； my dears？ Thinking your hearts will break。 There's
nothing； nothing； nothing； I say； That's worth the lying awake！
I learned it in my youth… Love I was dreaming of！ I learned it from the
needle…work That took the place of love。 I learned it from the years And
what they brought about； 》From song； and from the hills of joy Where
sorrow sought me out。
It's good to dream and turn； And turn and dream； or fall To comfort
with my pack of bones； And know of nothing at all！
Yes； never know at all！ If prowlers mew or bark； Nor wonder if it's
three o'clock Or four o'clock of the dark。
When the longer shades have fallen And the last weariness Has
brought the sweetest gift of life； The last forgetfulness。
If a sound as of old leaves Stir the last bed I keep； Then say； my dears：
〃It's old Lizette… She's turning in her sleep！〃
AGNES LEE
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MOTHERHOOD
MARY； the Christ long slain； passed silently。 Following the children
joyously astir Under the cedrus and the olive tree； Pausing to let their
laughter float to her。 Each voice an echo of a voice more dear； She saw a
little Christ in every face； When lo； another woman； gliding near； Yearned
o'er the tender life that filled the place。 And Mary sought the woman's
hand； and spoke： 〃I know thee not； yet know thy memory tossed With all a
thousand dreams their eyes evoke Who bring to thee a child beloved and
lost。
〃I； too； have rocked my little one； O； He was fair！ Yea； fairer than the
fairest sun； And like its rays through amber spun His sun…bright hair。 Still I
can see it shine and shine。〃 〃Even so；〃 the woman said；〃was mine。〃
〃His ways were ever darling ways；〃… And Mary smiled； 〃So soft； so
clinging！ Glad relays Of love were all His precious days。 My little child！
My infinite star！ My music fled！〃 〃Even so was mine；〃 the woman said。
Then whispered Mary： 〃Tell me； thou； Of thine。〃 And she： 〃O； mine
was rosy as a boug
Blooming with roses； sent； somehow； To bloom for me！ His balmy
fingers left a thrill Within my breast that warms me still。〃
Then gazed she down some wilder； darker hour； And said； when Mary
questioned； knowing not； 〃Who art thou； mother of so sweet a flower？〃 〃I
am the mother of Iscariot。〃
AGNES LEE
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ESSEX
I
THY hills are kneeling in the tardy spring； And wait； in supplication's
gentleness； The certain resurrection that shall bring A robe of verdure for
their nakedness。 Thy perfumed valleys where the twilights dwell； Thy
fields within the sunlight's living coil
Now promise； while the veins of nature swell； Eternal recompense to
human toil。 And when the sunset's final shades depart The aspiration to
completed birth Is sweet and silent； as the soft tears start； We know how
wanton and how little worth Are all the passions of our bleeding heart
That vex the awful patience of the earth。
II
Thine are the large winds and the splendid sun Glutting the spread of
heaven to the floor Of waters rhythmic from far shore to shore； And thine
the stars； revealing one by one； Thine the grave； lucent night's oblivion；
The tawny moon that waits below the skies； Strange as the dawn that
smote their blistered eyes Who watched from Calvary when the Deed was
done。 And thine the good brown earth that bares its breast To thy benign
October； thine the trees Lusty with fruitage in the late year's rest；
And thine the men whos@ blood has glorified Thy name with Liberty
Is divine decrees… The men who loved thy soil and fought and died。 III
Toward thine Eastern window when the morn Steals through the silver
mesh of silent stars； I come unlaurelled from the strenuous wars Where
men have fought and wept and died Forlorn。
But here； across the early fields of corn； The living silence dwelleth；
and the gray Sweet earth…mist； while afar the lisp of spray Breathes from
the ocean like a Triton's horn。 Open thy lattice； for the gage is won For
which this earth has journeyed though the dust Of shattered systems； cold
about the sun； And proved by sin； by mighty lives impearled； A voice cries
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through the sunrise： 〃Time is Just！〃 And falls like dew God's pity on the
world
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GEORGE CABOT LODGE
I
THE SONG OF THE WAVE This is the song of the wave！ The mighty
one！ Child of the soul of silence； beating the air to sound： White as a live
terror； as a drawn sword； This is the wave。
II
This is the song of the wave； the white…maned steed of the Tempest
Whose veins are swollen with life； In whose flanks abide the four winds。
This is the wave。
III
This is the song of the wave！ The dawn leaped out of the sea And the
waters lay smooth as a silver shield； And the sun…rays smote on the waters
like a golden sword。 Then a wind blew out of the morning And the waters
rustled And the wave was born！
IV This is the song of the wave！ The wind blew out of the noon
And the white sea…birds like driven foam Winged in from the ocean
that lay beyond the sky And the face of the waters was barred with white；
For the wave had many brothers； And the wave was strong！
V
This is the song of the wave！ The wind blew out of the sunset And the
west was lurid as Hell。 The black clouds closed like a tomb； for the sun
was dead。 Then the wind smote full as the breath of God； And the wave
called to its brothers； 〃This is the crest of life！〃
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VI
This is the song of the wave； that rises to fall； Rises a sheer green wall
like a barrier of glass That has caught the soul of the moonlight。 Caught
and prisoned the moon…beams； Its edge is frittered to foam。 This is the
wave！
VII
This is the song of the wave； of the wave that falls… Wild as a burst of
day…gold blown through the colours of morning It shivers to infinite atoms
up the rumbling steep of sand。 This is the wave。
VIII
This is the song of the wave that died in the fullness of life。 The
prodigal this； that lavished its largess of strength In the lust of attainment。
Aiming at things for Heaven too high； Sure in the pride of life； in the
richness of strength。 So tried it the impossible height； till the end was
found： Where ends the soul that yearns for the fillet of morning stars； The
soul in the toils of the journeying worlds； Whose eye is filled with the
Image of God； And the end is Death！
GEORGE CABOT LODGE
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FRIMAIRE
DEAREST； we are like two flowers Blooming in the garden； A purple
aster flower and a red one Standing alone in a withered desolation。
The garden plants are shattered and seeded； One brittle leaf scrapes
against another； Fiddling echoes of a rush of petals。 Now only you and I
nodding together。
Many were with us； they have all faded。 Only we are purple and
crimson； Only we in the dew…clear mornings； Smarten into color as the sun
rises。
When I scarcely see you in the flat moonlight； And later when my cold
roots tighten； I am anxious for morning； I cannot rest in fear of what
