Oh, lead me to a quiet cell
Where never footfall rankles,
And bar the window passing well,
And gyve my wrists and ankles.

Oh, wrap my eyes with linen fair,
With hempen cord go bind me,
And, of your mercy, leave me there,
Nor tell them where to find me.

Oh, lock the portal as you go,
And see its bolts be double....
Come back in half an hour or so,
And I will be in trouble.

Hope it was that tutored me,
  And Love that taught me more;
And now I learn at Sorrow's knee
  The self-same lore.

I'm sick of embarking in dories
  Upon an emotional sea.
I'm wearied of playing Dolores
  (A role never written for me).

I'll never again like a cub lick
  My wounds while I squeal at the hurt.
No more I'll go walking in public,
  My heart hanging out of my shirt.

I'm tired of entwining me garlands
  Of weather-worn hemlock and bay.
I'm over my longing for far lands--
  I wouldn't give that for Cathay.

I'm through with performing the ballet
  Of love unrequited and told.
Euterpe, I tender you vale;
  Good-by, and take care of that cold.

I'm done with this burning and giving
  And reeling the rhymes of my woes.
And how I'll be making my living,
  The Lord in His mystery knows.

The things she knew, let her forget again--
  The voices in the sky, the fear, the cold,
The gaping shepherds, and the queer old men
  Piling their clumsy gifts of foreign gold.

Let her have laughter with her little one;
  Teach her the endless, tuneless songs to sing,
Grant her her right to whisper to her son
  The foolish names one dare not call a king.

Keep from her dreams the rumble of a crowd,
  The smell of rough-cut wood, the trail of red,
The thick and chilly whiteness of the shroud
  That wraps the strange new body of the dead.

Ah, let her go, kind Lord, where mothers go
  And boast his pretty words and ways, and plan
The proud and happy years that they shall know
  Together, when her son is grown a man.

Dearest one, when I am dead
  Never seek to follow me.
    Never mount the quiet hill
    Where the copper leaves are still,
  As my heart is, on the tree
Standing at my narrow bed.

Only of your tenderness,
  Pray a little prayer at night.
    Say: "I have forgiven now--
    I, so weak and sad; O Thou,
  Wreathed in thunder, robed in light,
Surely Thou wilt do no less."

Long I fought the driving lists,
  Plume a-stream and armor clanging;
Link on link, between my wrists,
  Now my heavy freedom's hanging.

Maidens, gather not the yew,
  Leave the glossy myrtle sleeping;
Any lad was born untrue,
  Never a one is fit your weeping.

Pretty dears, your tumult cease;
  Love's a fardel, burthening double.
Clear your hearts, and have you peace--
  Gangway, girls: I'll show you trouble.

Because your eyes are slant and slow,
Because your hair is sweet to touch,
My heart is high again; but oh,
I doubt if this will get me much.

There's many and many, and not so far,
  Is willing to dry my tears away;
There's many to tell me what you are,
  And never a lie to all they say.

It's little the good to hide my head,
  It's never the use to bar my door;
There's many as counts the tears I shed,
  There's mourning hearts for my heart is

There's honester eyes than your blue eyes,
  There's better a mile than such as you.
But when did I say that I was wise,
  And when did I hope that you were true?

Ghosts of all my lovely sins,
  Who attend too well my pillow,
Gay the wanton rain begins;
  Hide the limp and tearful willow.

Turn aside your eyes and ears,
  Trail away your robes of sorrow,
You shall have my further years-
  You shall walk with me tomorrow.

I am sister to the rain;
  Fey and sudden and unholy,
Petulant at the windowpane,
  Quickly lost, remembered slowly.

I have lived with shades, a shade;
  I am hung with graveyard flowers.
Let me be tonight arrayed
  In the silver of the showers.

Every fragile thing shall rust;
  When another April passes
I may be a furry dust,
  Sifting through the brittle grasses.

All sweet sins shall be forgot;
  Who will live to tell their siring?
Hear me now, nor let me rot
  Wistful still, and still aspiring.

Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;
  I am frail, be you forgiving.
See you not that I have need
  To be living with the living?

Sail, tonight, the Styx's breast;
  Glide among the dim processions
Of the exquisite unblest,
  Spirits of my shared transgressions,

Roam with young Persephone.
  Plucking poppies for your slumber . . .
With the morrow, there shall be
  One more wraith among your number.

We shall have our little day.
Take my hand and travel still
Round and round the little way,
Up and down the little hill.

It is good to love again;
Scan the renovated skies,
Dip and drive the idling pen,
Sweetly tint the paling lies.

Trace the dripping, pierced heart,
Speak the fair, insistent verse,
Vow to God, and slip apart,
Little better, Little worse.

Would we need not know before
How shall end this prettiness;
One of us must love the more,
One of us shall love the less.

Thus it is, and so it goes;
We shall have our day, my dear.
Where, unwilling, dies the rose
Buds the new, another year.

Chloe's hair, no doubt, was brighter;
Lydia's mouth more sweetly sad;
****'s arms were rather whiter;
Languorous-lidded Helen had

Eyes more blue than e'er the sky was;
Lalage's was subtler stuff;
Still, you used to think that I was
Fair enough.

Now you're casting yearning glances
At the pale Penelope;
Cutting in on Claudia's dances;
Taking Iris out to tea.
Iole you find warm-hearted;
Zoe's cheek is far from rough--
Don't you think it's time we parted? . . .
Fair enough!

Tonight my love is sleeping cold
  Where none may see and none shall pass.
The daisies quicken in the mold,
  And richer fares the meadow grass.

The warding cypress pleads the skies,
  The mound goes level in the rain.
My love all cold and silent lies--
  Pray God it will not rise again!

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Accursed from their birth they be
  Who seek to find monogamy,
Pursuing it from bed to bed--
  I think they would be better dead.

If wild my breast and sore my pride,
  I bask in dreams of suicide;
If cool my heart and high my head,
  I think, "How lucky are the dead!"

[and scarcely worth the trouble, at that]

The same to me are somber days and gay.
  Though Joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,
Because my dearest love is gone away
  Within my heart is melancholy night.

My heart beats low in loneliness, despite
  That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.
In cerements my spirit is bedight;
  The same to me are somber days and gay.

Though breezes in the rippling grasses play,
  And waves dash high and far in glorious might,
I thrill no longer to the sparkling day,
  Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright.

Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight;
  As well might heaven's blue be sullen gray;
My soul discerns no beauty in their sight
  Because my dearest love is gone away.

Let roses fling afar their crimson spray,
  And ****** daisies splash the fields with white,
Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may,
  Within my heart is melancholy night.

And this, O love, my pitiable plight
  Whenever from my circling arms you stray;
This little world of mine has lost its light....
  I hope to God, my dear, that you can say
                                          The same to me.

The same to me are sombre days and gay.
Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,
Because my dearest love is gone away
Within my heart is melancholy night.

My heart beats low in loneliness, despite
That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.
In cerements my spirit is bedight;
The same to me are sombre days and gay.

Though breezes in the rippling grasses play,
And waves dash high and far in glorious might,
I thrill no longer to the sparkling day,
Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright.

Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight;
As well might Heaven's blue be sullen gray;
My soul discerns no beauty in their sight
Because my dearest love is gone away.

Let roses fling afar their crimson spray,
And ****** daisies splash the fields with white,
Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may,
Within my heart is melancholy night.

And this, oh love, my pitiable plight
Whenever from my circling arms you stray;
This little world of mine has lost its light ...
I hope to God, my dear, that you can say
The same to me.

She's passing fair; but so demure is she,
So quiet is her gown, so smooth her hair,
That few there are who note her and agree
     She's passing fair.

Yet when was ever beauty held more rare
Than simple heart and maiden modesty?
What fostered charms with virtue could compare?

Alas, no lover ever stops to see;
The best that she is offered is the air.
Yet--if the passing mark is minus D--
She's passing fair.

She that begs a little boon
  (Heel and toe! Heel and toe!)
Little gets--and nothing, soon.
  (No, no, no!  No, no, no!)
She that calls for costly things
Priceless finds her offerings--
What's impossible to kings?
  (Heel and toe! Heel and toe!)

Kings are shaped as other men.
  (Step and turn! Step and turn!)
Ask what none may ask again.
  (Will you learn?  Will you learn?)
Lovers whine, and kisses pall,
Jewels tarnish, kingdoms fall--
Death's the rarest prize of all!
  (Step and turn! Step and turn!)

Veils are woven to be dropped.
  (One, two, three! One, two, three!)
Aging eyes are slowest stopped.
  (Quietly! Quietly!)
She whose body's young and cool
Has no need of dancing-school--
Scratch a king and find a fool!
  (One, two, three! One, two, three!)

My land is bare of chattering folk;
  The clouds are low along the ridges,
And sweet's the air with curly smoke
  From all my burning bridges.

"So surely is she mine," you say, and turn
Your quick and steady mind to harder things--
To bills and bonds and talk of what men earn--
And whistle up the stair, of evenings.
And do you see a dream behind my eyes,
Or ask a simple question twice of me--
"Thus women are," you say; for men are wise
And tolerant, in their security.

How shall I count the midnights I have known
When calm you turn to me, nor feel me start,
To find my easy lips upon your own
And know my breast beneath your rhythmic heart.
Your god defer the day I tell you this:
My lad, my lad, it is not you I kiss!

Unseemly are the open eyes
  That watch the midnight sheep,
That look upon the secret skies
  Nor close, abashed, in sleep;

That see the dawn drag in, unbidden,
  To birth another day--
Oh, better far their gaze were hidden
  Below the decent clay.

Lady, lady, should you meet
One whose ways are all discreet,
One who murmurs that his wife
Is the lodestar of his life,
One who keeps assuring you
That he never was untrue,
Never loved another one . . .
  Lady, lady, better run!

There was a rose that faded young;
I saw its shattered beauty hung
  Upon a broken stem.
I heard them say, "What need to care
With roses budding everywhere?"
  I did not answer them.

There was a bird, brought down to die;
They said, "A hundred fill the sky--
  What reason to be sad?"
There was a girl, whose lover fled;
I did not wait, the while they said,
  "There's many another lad."

This is what I vow;
He shall have my heart to keep,
Sweetly will we stir and sleep,
    All the years, as now.
Swift the measured sands may run;
Love like this is never done;
He and I are welded one:
    This is what I vow.

    This is what I pray:
Keep him by me tenderly;
Keep him sweet in pride of me,
    Ever and a day;
Keep me from the old distress;
Let me, for our happiness,
Be the one to love the less:
    This is what I pray.

    This is what I know:
Lovers' oaths are thin as rain;
Love's a harbinger of pain--
    Would it were not so!
Ever is my heart a-thirst,
Ever is my love accurst;
He is neither last nor first:
    This is what I know.

There's a place I know where the birds swing low,
And wayward vines go roaming,
Where the lilacs nod, and a marble god
Is pale, in scented gloaming.
And at sunset there comes a lady fair
Whose eyes are deep with yearning.
By an old, old gate does the lady wait
Her own true love's returning.

But the days go by, and the lilacs die,
And trembling birds seek cover;
Yet the lady stands, with her long white hands
Held out to greet her lover.
And it's there she'll stay till the shadowy day
A monument they grave her.
She will always wait by the same old gate, --
The gate her true love gave her.

Here in my heart I am Helen;
  I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least.
I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Stael;
  I'm Salome, moon of the East.

Here in my soul I am Sappho;
  Lady Hamilton am I, as well.
In me Recamier vies with Kitty O'Shea,
  With Dido, and Eve, and poor Nell.

I'm of the glamorous ladies
  At whose beckoning history shook.
But you are a man, and see only my pan,
  So I stay at home with a book.

Oh, I should like to ride the seas,
  A roaring buccaneer;
A cutlass banging at my knees,
  A dirk behind my ear.
And when my captives' chains would clank
  I'd howl with glee and drink,
And then fling out the quivering plank
  And watch the beggars sink.

I'd like to straddle gory decks,
  And dig in laden sands,
And know the feel of throbbing necks
  Between my knotted hands.
Oh, I should like to strut and curse
  Among my blackguard crew...
But I am writing little verse,
  As little ladies do.

Oh, I should like to dance and laugh
  And pose and preen and sway,
And rip the hearts of men in half,
  And toss the bits away.
I'd like to view the reeling years
  Through unastonished eyes,
And dip my finger-tips in tears,
  And give my smiles for sighs.

I'd stroll beyond the ancient bounds,
  And tap at fastened gates,
And hear the prettiest of sound-
  The clink of shattered fates.
My slaves I'd like to bind with thongs
  That cut and burn and chill...
But I am writing little songs,
  As little ladies will.

So take my vows and scatter them to sea;
Who swears the sweetest is no more than human.
And say no kinder words than these of me:
"Ever she longed for peace, but was a woman!
And thus they are, whose silly female dust
Needs little enough to clutter it and bind it,
Who meet a slanted gaze, and ever must
Go build themselves a soul to dwell behind it."

For now I am my own again, my friend!
This scar but points the whiteness of my breast;
This frenzy, like its betters, spins an end,
And now I am my own.  And that is best.
Therefore, I am immeasurably grateful
To you, for proving shallow, false, and hateful.

My hand, a little raised, might press a star--
Where I may look, the frosted peaks are spun,
So shaped before Olympus was begun,
Spanned each to each, now, by a silver bar.
Thus to face Beauty have I traveled far,
But now, as if around my heart were run
Hard, lacing fingers, so I stand undone.
Of all my tears, the bitterest these are.

Who humbly followed Beauty all her ways,
Begging the brambles that her robe had passed,
Crying her name in corridors of stone,
That day shall know his weariedest of days--
When Beauty, still and suppliant at last,
Does not suffice him, once they are alone.

Star, that gives a gracious dole,
  What am I to choose?
Oh, will it be a shriven soul,
  Or little buckled shoes?

Shall I wish a wedding-ring,
  Bright and thin and round,
Or plead you send me covering--
  A newly spaded mound?

Gentle beam, shall I implore
  Gold, or sailing-ships,
Or beg I hate forevermore
  A pair of lying lips?

Swing you low or high away,
  Burn you hot or dim;
My only wish I dare not say--
  Lest you should grant me him.

"And if he's gone away," said she,
"Good riddance, if you're asking me.
I'm not a one to lie awake
And weep for anybody's sake.
There's better lads than him about!
I'll wear my buckled slippers out
A-dancing till the break of day.
I'm better off with him away!
And if he never come," said she,
"Now what on earth is that to me?
I wouldn't have him back!"
  I hope
Her mother washed her mouth with soap.

My garden blossoms pink and white,
A place of decorous murmuring,
Where I am safe from August night
And cannot feel the knife of Spring.

And I may walk the pretty place
Before the curtsying hollyhocks
And laundered daisies, round of face--
Good little girls, in party frocks.

My trees are amiably arrayed
In pattern on the dappled sky,
And I may sit in filtered shade
And watch the tidy years go by.

And I may amble pleasantly
And hear my neighbors list their bones
And click my tongue in sympathy,
And count the cracks in paving-stones.

My door is grave in oaken strength,
The cool of linen calms my bed,
And there at night I stretch my length
And envy no one but the dead.

Every love's the love before
  In a duller dress.
That's the measure of my lore--
  Here's my bitterness:
Would I knew a little more,
  Or very much less!

Should they whisper false of you.
  Never trouble to deny;
Should the words they say be true,
  Weep and storm and swear they lie.

My heart went fluttering with fear
Lest you should go, and leave me here
To beat my breast and rock my head
And stretch me sleepless on my bed.
Ah, clear they see and true they say
That one shall weep, and one shall stray
For such is Love's unvarying law....
I never thought, I never saw
That I should be the first to go;
How pleasant that it happened so!

You are brief and frail and blue--
  Little sisters, I am, too.
You are Heaven's masterpieces--
  Little loves, the likeness ceases.

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.

I never may turn the loop of a road
  Where sudden, ahead, the sea is lying,
But my heart drags down with an ancient load--
  My heart, that a second before was flying.

I never behold the quivering rain--
  And sweeter the rain than a lover to me--
But my heart is wild in my breast with pain;
  My heart, that was tapping contentedly.

There's never a rose spreads new at my door
  Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night
But I know I have known its beauty before,
  And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.

The look of a laurel tree birthed for May
  Or a sycamore bared for a new November
Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day--
  What is it, what is it, I almost remember?

Oh, let it be a night of lyric rain
And singing breezes, when my bell is tolled.
I have so loved the rain that I would hold
Last in my ears its friendly, dim refraln.
I shall lie cool and quiet, who have lain
Fevered, and watched the book of day unfold.
Death will not see me flinch; the heart is bold
That pain has made incapable of pain.

Kinder the busy worms than ever love;
It will be peace to lie there, empty-eyed,
My bed made secret by the leveling showers,
My breast replenishing the weeds above.
And you will say of me, "Then has she died?
Perhaps I should have sent a spray of flowers."

When first we saw the apple tree
  The boughs were dark and straight,
But never grief to give had we,
  Though Spring delayed so late.

When last I came away from there
  The boughs were heavy hung,
But little grief had I to spare
  For Summer, perished young.

Love has had his way with me.
  This my heart is torn and maimed
Since he took his play with me.
  Cruel well the bow-boy aimed,

Shot, and saw the feathered shaft
  Dripping bright and bitter red.
He that shrugged his wings and laughed--
  Better had he left me dead.

Sweet, why do you plead me, then,
  Who have bled so sore of that?
Could I bear it once again? . . .
  Drop a hat, dear, drop a hat!

He'd have given me rolling lands,
  Houses of marble, and billowing farms,
Pearls, to trickle between my hands,
  Smoldering rubies, to circle my arms.
You--you'd only a lilting song,
  Only a melody, happy and high,
You were sudden and swift and strong--
  Never a thought for another had I.

He'd have given me laces rare,
  Dresses that glimmered with frosty sheen,
Shining ribbons to wrap my hair,
  Horses to draw me, as fine as a queen.
You--you'd only to whistle low,
  Gayly I followed wherever you led.
I took you, and I let him go--
  Somebody ought to examine my head!

And now I have another lad!
No longer need you tell
How all my nights are slow and sad
For loving you too well.

His ways are not your wicked ways,
He's not the like of you.
He treads his path of reckoned days,
A sober man, and true.

They'll never see him in the town,
Another on his knee.
He'd cut his laden orchards down,
If that would pleasure me.

He'd give his blood to paint my lips
If I should wish them red.
He prays to touch my finger-tips
Or stroke my prideful head.

He never weaves a glinting lie,
Or brags the hearts he'll keep.
I have forgotten how to sigh--
Remembered how to sleep.

He's none to kiss away my mind--
A slower way is his.
Oh, Lord! On reading this, I find
A silly lot he is.

Who was there had seen us
  Wouldn't bid him run?
Heavy lay between us
  All our sires had done.

There he was, a-springing
  Of a pious race,
Setting hags a-swinging
  In a market-place;

Sowing turnips over
  Where the poppies lay;
Looking past the clover,
  Adding up the hay;

Shouting through the Spring song,
  Clumping down the sod;
Toadying, in sing-song,
  To a crabbed god.

There I was, that came of
  Folk of mud and name--
I that had my name of
  Them without a name.

Up and down a mountain
  Streeled my silly stock;
Passing by a fountain,
  Wringing at a rock;

Devil-gotten sinners,
  Throwing back their heads,
Fiddling for their dinners,
  Kissing for their beds.

Not a one had seen us
  Wouldn't help him flee.
Angry ran between us
  Blood of him and me.

How shall I be mating
  Who have looked above--
Living for a hating,
  Dying of a love?

A string of shiny days we had,
  A spotless sky, a yellow sun;
And neither you nor I was sad
  When that was through and done.

But when, one day, a boy comes by
  And pleads me with your happiest vow,
"There was a lad I knew--" I'll sigh,
  "I do not know him now."

And when another girl shall pass
  And speak a little name I said,
Then you will say, "There was a lass--
  I wonder is she dead."

And each of us will sigh, and start
  A-talking of a faded year,
And lay a hand above a heart,
  And dry a pretty tear.

You know the bloom, unearthly white,
That none has seen by morning light-
The tender moon, alone, may bare
Its beauty to the secret air.
Who'd venture past its dark retreat
Must kneel, for holy things and sweet,
That blossom, mystically blown,
No man may gather for his own
Nor touch it, lest it droop and fall....
Oh, I am not like that at all!

They laid their hands upon my head,
They stroked my cheek and brow;
And time could heal a hurt, they said,
And time could dim a vow.

And they were pitiful and mild
Who whispered to me then,
"The heart that breaks in April, child,
Will mend in May again."

Oh, many a mended heart they knew.
So old they were, and wise.
And little did they have to do
To come to me with lies!

Who flings me silly talk of May
Shall meet a bitter soul;
For June was nearly spent away
Before my heart was whole.

Drink and dance and laugh and lie,
  Love, the reeling midnight through,
For tomorrow we shall die!
  (But, alas, we never do.)