Classic Poem

To Donald Evans

In a remote alcove
Sits tonight
One whom I know to be a poet —
A great poet, but keyed
In a pitch that is neither the world's
Nor that of other poets.
Once he was a keen knife of spirit
Stabbing dull hearts;
But now he is wearied out wholly
Save for the brief renascence of the midnight hour.
Across the table
A pale, flame-lipped, very exquisite girl
Looks at him with inscrutable eyes.
Then, as his lips move —
Then, as he leans forward —
I see, I divine, that he says:

" Light-foot whisperer over the dark abysses! —
Beautiful breast
Never to be forgotten! —
Evilly have you worked upon me!
Now the orange floods of the afternoon
And the watery green depths of the midnight,
The vestal dawn
And the scarlet screaming dawn
Flicker with your passage!

" Glittering, gay, fantastic, unhappy child —
You seem as old as the oldest sin of the world
And as young as its newest rapture.
You are to me fresh April,
And the last days of October, —
Honey, and myrrh, —
The delicate dusk, and the stark dawn-light.
I have expected you a long time
With wonder and with terror;
And now, with your kiss upon my lips,
I await the miracle to result —
Corruption, or transfiguration. "

And she, having listened
With inscrutable eyes and lips that were motionless,
Drank the champagne in her glass,
And looked curiously into the distance;
While he went on:

" You have brought me a lost wonder
And stirred in me a romance
I had forgotten.

" Now I again see landscapes
Clothed in their rightful mystery,
And the dusk is again holy,
And food is again sweet.

" Now I am alive
Who was dead. "

But her lips did not move,
Not even with a smile.
And then he said,
While the violins sang with him:

" Lovely child — on your breast
Could a head find snowy rest?
Could the dizzy pulses cease
And the madness take release?
Yes! Yes! that I know —
For I dreamed it long ago. . . .
But, child, on what breast
Shall your head find rest? "

She turned her eyes away from him,
And her lips were as quiet as lilies. . . .
Red lilies of a garden in Cashmere. . . .
Then the dancers fluttered out
Into the pools of the spot-light. . . .
And she smiled.