ANGELINA WELD GRIMKÉ

Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep. Very gentle and quiet he lies, With a little smile of sweet surprise, Just softly hushed at lips and eyes, Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep.

Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep. Death leaned down as his eyes grew dim, And his face, I know, was not strange, not grim, But oh! it was beautiful to him, Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep.

Tell me is there anything lovelier, Anything more quieting Than the green of little blades of grass And the green of little leaves? Is not each leaf a cool green hand, Is not each blade of grass a mothering green finger, Hushing the heart that beats and beats and beats?

Always at dusk, the same tearless experience, The same dragging of feet up the same well-worn path To the same well-worn rock; The same crimson or gold dropping away of the sun, The same tints—rose, saffron, violet, lavender, grey, Meeting, mingling, mixing mistily; Before me the same blue black cedar rising jaggedly to a point; Over it, the same slow unlidding of twin stars, Two eyes unfathomable, soul-searing, Watching, watching—watching me; The same two eyes that draw me forth, against my will dusk after dusk; The same two eyes that keep me sitting late into the night, chin on knees, Keep me there lonely, rigid, tearless, numbly miserable,—The eyes of my Regret.

Touch me, touch me, Little cool grass fingers, Elusive, delicate grass fingers. With your shy brushings, Touch my face— My naked arms— My thighs— My feet. Is there nothing that is kind? You need not fear me. Soon I shall be too far beneath you, For you to reach me, even, With your tiny, timorous toes.

We ask for peace. We, at the bound O life, are weary of the round In search of Truth. We know the quest Is not for us, the vision blest Is meant for other eyes. Uncrowned, We go, with heads bowed to the ground, And old hands, gnarled and hard and browned. Let us forget the past unrest,— We ask for peace. Our strainéd ears are deaf,—no sound May reach them more; no sight may wound Our worn-out eyes. We gave our best, And, while we totter down the West, Unto that last, that open mound,— We ask for peace.

’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men, Their comin’s and their goin’s; For there’s the grey road, The straight road With the grey dust liftin’ With ev’ry step And the little roads off-flingin’. Maybe it’s a bit of a sly field That crooks a finger to them And sends them to the turnin’; Or the round firm bosom Of a little hill Acallin’ to them, them with their heads That heavy; Or maybe it’s the black look Given out of the tail of the eye; Or a white word, wingin’; Maybe it’s only the back of a little tot’s neck In the sunlight; Or the red lips of a woman Parting slow.... Sure there’s no tellin’. One I saw goin’ towards a white star At the edge of a daffydill sky, Its lights kissin’ straight into his eyes. Maybe it’s a gold piece To be taken from another In the dark; Or the neat place between the ribs Waitin’ for the knife That one comes after carryin’ for it. ’Tis few, it is, that goes with the grey road The straight road All the way, With the grey dust liftin’ at ev’ry step. ’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men, With a level look at you, or a crooked As they be passin’. Pouf! Sure, ’tis so fast they’re goin’, Does it matter about the turnin’s?

There is a tree, by day, That, at night, Has a shadow, A hand huge and black, With fingers long and black. All through the dark, Against the white man’s house, In the little wind, The black hand plucks and plucks At the bricks. The bricks are the color of blood and very small. Is it a black hand, Or is it a shadow?

When the green lies over the earth, my dear, A mantle of witching grace, When the smile and the tear of the young child year Dimple across its face, And then flee, when the wind all day is sweet With the breath of growing things, When the wooing bird lights on restless feet And chirrups and trills and sings To his lady-love In the green above, Then oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year, Yours is the face that I long to have near, Yours is the face, my dear. But the green is hiding your curls, my dear, Your curls so shining and sweet; And the gold-hearted daisies this many a year Have bloomed and bloomed at your feet, And the little birds just above your head With their voices hushed, my dear, For you have sung and have prayed and have pled This many, many a year. And the blossoms fall, On the garden wall, And drift like snow on the green below. But the sharp thorn grows On the budding rose, And my heart no more leaps at the sunset glow. For oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year, Yours is the face that I long to have near, Yours is the face, my dear.

I should like to creep Through the long brown grasses That are your lashes; I should like to poise On the very brink Of the leaf-brown pools That are your shadowed eyes; I should like to cleave Without sound, Their glimmering waters, Their unrippled waters, I should like to sink down And down And down ... And deeply drown.

Would I be more than a bubble breaking? Or an ever-widening circle Ceasing at the marge? Would my white bones Be the only white bones Wavering back and forth, back and forth In their depths?

When face to face we stand And eye to eye, How far apart we are——As far, they say, as God can ever be From what, they say, is Hell. But, when we stand Fronting the other, Mile after mile slipping in between, O, close we are, As close as is the shadow to the body, As breath, to life, ............ As kisses are to love.

I love your hands: They are big hands, firm hands, gentle hands; Hair grows on the back near the wrist ... I have seen the nails broken and stained From hard work. And yet, when you touch me, I grow small ....... and quiet ........ ....... And happy .......... If I might only grow small enough To curl up into the hollow of your palm, Your left palm, Curl up, lie close and cling, So that I might know myself always there, ....... Even if you forgot.

—I weep— Not as the young do noisily, Not as the aged rustily, But quietly. Drop by drop the great tears Splash upon my hands, And save you saw them shine, You would not know I wept.

The sky was blue, so blue that day And each daisy white, so white, O, I knew that no more could rains fall grey And night again be night. I knew, I knew. Well, if night is night, And the grey skies greyly cry, I have in a book for the candle light, A daisy dead and dry.

Twin stars through my purpling pane, The shriveling husk Of a yellowing moon on the wane— And the dusk.

Sometimes it seems as though some puppet player A clenched claw cupping a craggy chin, Sits just beyond the border of our seeing, Twitching the strings with slow sardonic grin.

A silence slipping around like death, Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath; One group of trees, lean, naked and cold, Inking their crests ’gainst a sky green-gold; One path that knows where the corn flowers were; Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir; And over it softly leaning down, One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.