INTRIGUE

Thou art my love, And thou art the peace of sundown When the blue shadows soothe, And the grasses and the leaves sleep

To the song of the little brooks, Woe is me. Thou art my love, And thou art a strorm

That breaks black in the sky, And, sweeping headlong, Drenches and cowers each tree, And at the panting end

There is no sound Save the melancholy cry of a single owl — Woe is me! Thou are my love,

And thou art a tinsel thing, And I in my play Broke thee easily, And from the little fragments

Arose my long sorrow — Woe is me. Thou art my love, And thou art a wary violet,

Drooping from sun-caresses, Answering mine carelessly — Woe is me. Thou art my love,

And thou art the ashes of other men's love, And I bury my face in these ashes, And I love them — Woe is me.

Thou art my love, And thou art the beard On another man's face — Woe is me.

Thou art my love, And thou art a temple, And in this temple is an altar, And on this altar is my heart —

Woe is me. Thou art my love, And thou art a wretch. Let these sacred love-lies choke thee,

From I am come to where I know your lies as truth And you truth as lies — Woe is me. Thou art my love,

And thou art a priestess, And in they hand is a bloody dagger, And my doom comes to me surely — Woe is me.

Thou art my love, And thou art a skull with ruby eyes, And I love thee — Woe is me.

Thou art my love, And I doubt thee. And if peace came with thy murder Then would I murder —

Woe is me. Thou art my love, And thou art death, Aye, thou art death

Black and yet black, But I love thee, I love thee — Woe, welcome woe, to me.

Love, forgive me if I wish you grief, For in your grief You huddle to my breast, And for it

Would I pay the price of your grief. You walk among men And all men do not surrender, And thus I understand

That love reaches his hand In mercy to me. He had your picture in his room, A scurvy traitor picture,

And he smiled — Merely a fat complacence of men who know fine women — And thus I divided with him A part of my love.

Fool, not to know that thy little shoe Can make men weep! — Some men weep. I weep and I gnash,

And I love the little shoe, The little, little shoe. God give me medals, God give me loud honors,

That I may strut before you, sweetheart, And be worthy of — The love I bear you. Now let me crunch you

With full weight of affrighted love. I doubted you — I doubted you — And in this short doubting

My love grew like a genie For my further undoing. Beware of my friends, Be not in speech too civil,

For in all courtesy My weak heart sees spectres, Mists of desire Arising from the lips of my chosen;

Be not civil. The flower I gave thee once Was incident to a stride, A detail of a gesture,

But search those pale petals And see engraven thereon A record of my intention. Ah, God, the way your little finger moved,

As you thrust a bare arm backward And made play with your hair And a comb, a silly gilt comb — Ah, God — that I should suffer

Because of the way a little finger moved. Once I saw thee idly rocking — Idly rocking — And chattering girlishly to other girls,

Bell-voiced, happy, Careless with the stout heart of unscarred womanhood, And life to thee was all light melody. I thought of the great storms of love as I knew it,

Torn, miserable, and ashamed of my open sorrow, I thought of the thunders that lived in my head, And I wish to be an ogre, And hale and haul my beloved to a castle,

And make her mourn with my mourning. Tell me why, behind thee, I see always the shadow of another lover? Is it real,

Or is this the thrice damned memory of a better happiness? Plague on him if he be dead, Plague on him if he be alive — A swinish numskull

To intrude his shade Always between me and my peace! And yet I have seen thee happy with me. I am no fool

To poll stupidly into iron. I have heard your quick breaths And seen your arms writhe toward me; At those times

— God help us — I was impelled to be a grand knight, And swagger and snap my fingers, And explain my mind finely.

Oh, lost sweetheart, I would that I had not been a grand knight. I said: “Sweetheart.” Thou said'st: “Sweetheart.”

And we preserved an admirable mimicry Without heeding the drip of the blood From my heart. I heard thee laugh,

And in this merriment I defined the measure of my pain; I knew that I was alone, Alone with love,

Poor shivering love, And he, little sprite, Came to watch with me, And at midnight,

We were like two creatures by a dead camp-fire. I wonder if sometimes in the dusk, When the brave lights that gild thy evenings Have not yet been touched with flame,

I wonder if sometimes in the dusk Thou rememberest a time, A time when thou loved me And our love was to thee thy all?

Is the memory rubbish now? An old gown Worn in an age of other fashions? Woe is me, oh, lost one,

For that love is now to me A supernal dream, White, white, white with many suns. Love met me at noonday,

— Reckless imp, To leave his shaded nights And brave the glare,— And I saw him then plainly

For a bungler, A stupid, simpering, eyeless bungler, Breaking the hearts of brave people As the snivelling idiot-boy cracks his bowl,

And I cursed him, Cursed him to and fro, back and forth, Into all the silly mazes of his mind, But in the end

He laughed and pointed to my breast, Where a heart still beat for thee, beloved. I have seen thy face aflame For love of me,

Thy fair arms go mad, Thy lips tremble and mutter and rave. And — surely — This should leave a man content?

Thou lovest not me now, But thou didst love me, And in loving me once Thou gavest me an eternal privilege,

For I can think of thee.