Part 4 (1/2)

THE TRUTH

Since I have seen a bird one day, His head pecked more than half away; That hopped about, with but one eye, Ready to fight again, and die-- Ofttimes since then their private lives Have spoilt that joy their music gives.

So when I see this robin now, Like a red apple on the bough, And question why he sings so strong, For love, or for the love of song; Or sings, maybe, for that sweet rill Whose silver tongue is never still--

Ah, now there comes this thought unkind, Born of the knowledge in my mind: He sings in triumph that last night He killed his father in a fight; And now he'll take his mother's blood-- The last strong rival for his food.

WALTER DE LA MARE

THE MOTH

Isled in the midnight air, Musked with the dark's faint bloom, Out into glooming and secret haunts The flame cries, 'Come!'

Lovely in dye and fan, A-tremble in s.h.i.+mmering grace, A moth from her winter swoon Uplifts her face:

Stares from her glamorous eyes; Wafts her on plumes like mist; In ecstasy swirls and sways To her strange tryst.

'SOTTO VOCE'

(To EDWARD THOMAS)

The haze of noon wanned silver-grey, The soundless mansion of the sun; The air made visible in his ray, Like molten gla.s.s from furnace run, Quivered o'er heat-baked turf and stone And the flower of the gorse burned on-- Burned softly as gold of a child's fair hair Along each spiky spray, and shed Almond-like incense in the air Whereon our senses fed.

At foot--a few spa.r.s.e harebells: blue And still as were the friend's dark eyes That dwelt on mine, transfixed through With sudden ecstatic surmise.

'Hst!' he cried softly, smiling, and lo, Stealing amidst that maze gold-green, I heard a whispering music flow From guileful throat of bird, unseen:-- So delicate, the straining ear Scarce carried its faint syllabling Into a heart caught-up to hear That inmost pondering Of bird-like self with self. We stood, In happy trance-like solitude, Hearkening a lullay grieved and sweet-- As when on isle uncharted beat 'Gainst coral at the palm-tree's root, With brine-clear, snow-white foam afloat, The wailing, not of water or wind-- A husht, far, wild, divine lament, When Prospero his wizardry bent Winged Ariel to bind....

Then silence, and o'er-flooding noon.

I raised my head; smiled too. And he-- Moved his great hand, the magic gone-- Gently amused to see My ignorant wonderment. He sighed.

'It was a nightingale,' he said, 'That _sotto voce_ cons the song He'll sing when dark is spread; And Night's vague hours are sweet and long, And we are laid abed.'

SEPHINA

Black lacqueys at the wide-flung door Stand mute as men of wood.

Gleams like a pool the ballroom floor-- A burnished solitude.

A hundred waxen tapers s.h.i.+ne From silver sconces; softly pine 'Cello, fiddle, mandoline, To music deftly wooed-- And dancers in cambric, satin, silk, With glancing hair and cheeks like milk, Wreathe, curtsey, intertwine.

The drowse of roses lulls the air Wafted up the marble stair.

Like warbling water clucks the talk.

From room to room in splendour walk Guests, smiling in the aery sheen; Carmine and azure, white and green, They stoop and languish, pace and preen Bare shoulder, painted fan, Gemmed wrist and finger, neck of swan; And still the pluckt strings warble on; Still from the snow-bowered, link-lit street The m.u.f.fled hooves of horses beat; And harness rings; and foam-fleckt bit Clanks as the slim heads toss and stare From deep, dark eyes. Smiling, at ease, Mount to the porch the pomped grandees In lonely state, by twos, and threes, Exchanging languid courtesies, While torches fume and flare.