Songs of Women

OH I was young an’ feared o’ pain When I went hot-lovering down the lane. I sipped sweet honey wi’ my red lips, An’ I touched fire wi’ my finger-tips, But I drew them back again— For the withered, gray woman so old and wise, Wi’ the queer, hushed voice an’ the listening eyes, An’ the stone-deaf ears, who lives i’ the lane— She stepped so soft an’ she says “Rose-Jane! You’re eating plum porridge (ye poor wee loon!) Eating it hot in a rare blue moon. You’ve a dimpled face like a rosy June, But your mouth’ll be burnt Before you’ve learnt The way of a man in the moon. And then they’ll call you ‘Old Rose-Jane Who went hot-lovering down the lane.’ Beware of the rare blue moon, Rose-Jane!” Saints bless that woman wi’ listening eyes! I’ve planted the sweet-briar where she lies. She stopped my ears an’ she made me wise. I’m pure as the virgin saints are pure— Now never a man my pale lips lure. But once in a blue moon, I’m not sure That the withered gray woman, wi’ listening eyes, Didn’t cheat me out of a rare fine prize. Something calls to me i’ the moon, “Rose-Jane! Rose-Jane! Come! Come soon!”

“O MISTRESS Mary—Mistress Mary— What have you found in your new old house? Paperers are waiting you, and carpenters, and gardeners— And you are up garret, just as still as a mouse! What makes your eyes so wet and so round? Mary—Mary! What have you found?” “Where the sour old wind grieves under the eaves There’s an old trunk hid—Oh the dust on the lid! I pulled out from it a gay round box, And in it were worn-out boots and socks— Little, soft socks and little, stout boots— And a child’s crude drawings of flowers and fruits, And a tiny toy whip, and a ship and a ball— Oh—they’re just like a little lost boy! That’s all!”

’TWAS a green velvet gown That he wanted me to wear, With a yellow satin ribbon In my rough brown hair. But his flame burned down And then he turned cold; And he sent for the Parson, Who called me bold. ....... So I’ve come down with my velvet gown To earn my living in Evil-Town. But I think I was ever more mad than bad, And I’d very much rather be good and glad.... ....... Frowsy thing With a broken wing! Hark to the queer little songs she’ll sing! Drowsy thing!

THE eerie fingers of the rain All day have stroked my window-pane, While all the day and all the night Elves have been grinding, keen and bright, Weird, tiny knives of nerves and wits. Upon my heart an Elf-king sits ... A cruel, Lilliputian mite ... And by my breath he flies a kite Of hope in life or hope in death. He tugs and scowls with all his might ... The kite depends on my frail breath. I watch the earthly colours bright, Painted upon that fluttering kite. ....... Little boys fly gay kites And play with marbles ... Little boys laugh and shout In the wind and the sunshine.... ....... Little Boy ... oh little Boy ... were you ever an Elf-king? ....... The eerie fingers of the rain All day have stroked my window-pane. ....... Far off I hear a voice explain “She seems to listen to the rain ... She has put up a plucky fight! A splendid boy! Oh she’s all right!” ....... Elves! Elves! Stop your grinding! Rain! Rain! Stop your stroking! Bright little kite is gaily flying In the sky ... for I’m not dying ... I am alive!... alive!... alive! Heart and soul and senses five! ....... Now as soon as I can say anything I’ll make them show me that Elfin-king!

FRAIL, exquisite, indomitable face, Where pain has left its trace ... Where are the words to paint Her curious austere charm ... elusive, pure, As the frost etchings on the window-pane. Ivory, ebony, lace ... Yes I shall choose that clinging gown of black, Severely plain, but with such frills of lace Over the delicate wrists and blue-veined hands That for an instant one feels all restraint Quite useless! Ravishing, ecstatic frills Of lace, or lacy thrills! Choose either phrase! She’s no fanatical saint ... No, after all, No saint at all! Come help me, portrait painters rare and old ... Velasquez, Romney, Reynolds and Van Dyke ... Here’s what you’d like Poured in a modern, twentieth century mould. Ivory, ebony, lace ... Her face Brings suddenly before me grave and clear, Impression of an old-time cavalier, With feminine grace; Brave glancing sword and delicate ripples of lace. For she has conquered dragons of old pain With a deep-shining clarity of thought: Victorious though her frailty shows the strain. I trace With clumsy words the outlines of her face ... Brave, grave, and suddenly flashing, purely gay, Like the lace frills at play! And so you see as I began I end This portrait of my friend ... Ivory, ebony, lace ... Frail, exquisite, indomitable face!

SING hey the green willow That grows in my valley! Oh who would climb hill-tops To see what’s beyond! There came a gipsy vagabond A-strolling down my valley, With honey mouth for kissing And a gown of dusky red. “So this is how ye spend the days Wi’ never a wind to freshen ye— Climb up the hill wi’ me, my lad, An’ look—see what’s beyond!” She laughed wi’ me, and shared sweet bread, And waved a willow wand. By green moonlight we climbed the hill And reached the top at morn, And then she stood on tip-toe there And blew a silver horn. Oh at the other side the hill Her gipsy lord was waiting there ... I saw a joyous mating there That left me all forlorn. I watched her gown of dusky red Against the blue horizon ... Oh that was how I climbed the hill And saw the world beyond. I wonder why God let her come And share sweet bread a-laughing, And leave a-lying at my feet Her broken willow wand. Sing hey the green willow That grows in my valley! Oh who would climb hill-tops To see what’s beyond?

ICICLES ... icicles hang from the eaves In glittering sheaves, Over attic windows, A cold wind heaves Great, shuddering, gusty sighs; it grieves For its waning power in the gay March sun, Whose melting work now is well begun ... Soft, slow, Drip, drip, Soft, slow, Drop, drop ... Great icicle tears ... Glistening, heavy, sun-drenched tears! Under my roof Remote, aloof, Lies this deer-hide trunk with its quaint, brass nails, Ancient, small ... How that old wind wails As I lift the lid to see What is here for me! Delightful find! All carefully, carefully lined With old old wall-paper, blue and gold! First I unfold An Indian shawl ... then a linen sheet ... Oh ... packets of letters, still faintly sweet ... “More letters to burn!” I groan, “Dear dear! But here ... look here! As I live an old, old violin, So frail and thin, And dusky dark in its shapely line; A shell out-worn; (hear that old wind whine!) With a cruel gash here at one side, And the tail-piece torn And dangling, tied by a piece of twine ... A dead violin in fine. ....... “We spend our years as a tale that is told” Violins packed in a poetry mould! Blue violins that, liquid, pour Vanished songs on a mystic shore ... Green violins that ecstatic trill Like bobolinks, till the year stands still In a lyrical meadow of green and gold ... (Violins packed in a poetry mould!) Red violins of a summer night Throbbing with passionate, blood-red song ... Dead violin! Ice-bound so long ... Soft! Soft ... drop softly icicle tears ... Icicle tears from the ice-bound years, Vibrating under my strong, new roof, Where the old violin, remote, aloof, Lies in my hands so terribly dead ... Never an echo of throbbing red ... Dead. Dead. ....... I want to bury it where it will rot In rich warm earth, in a noontide hot, Under the mightiest tree I know, And let it again through the tree-roots grow. I’ll fold it close in the soft, old sheet, Place the letters, still faintly sweet, Against the gash in its dark-hued side ... Its the violin—not Love—that died.

I HEAR him humming as he drives his car, In mellow baritone, an ancient psalm— Drifting down to his subtle modern brain From his old covenanting ancestors, Who strode bare-kneed through purple heather bloom, Praising their God on wind-swept Highland hills. I am his wife. Beside him vividly, I see now not the crowded city streets, Through which he presses, strong, aloof and calm, Factories and shipyards where his vast machines Whirr steadfastly, obedient to his brain— I see now just those small and golden hours When he is mine.