THE WINGÉD CLOAK

I DRAW my cloak about me ... Tattered and gray To others it may be. It seems to me Of golden hue, Broidered with mystic blue, Woven each dawn anew, And light as dew-ringed cobweb On the grass. Unscathed and joyously In it I pass Through drenching torrent, wind, Fierce pitiless sun, Till day is done.

HYACINTH dreams in the arbour ... Just a crumpled mass of gray ... Soft ashen hair and colourless skin, Small, delicate hands blue-veined and thin ... Hyacinth dreams in the arbour And who shall say What Hyacinth dreams to-day? Hyacinth dreams in the arbour And the stealthy pussy-cat creeps To her silken lap in the soft green gloom. Room for the pussy-cat, Hyacinth ... room! Hyacinth dreams, in the arbour, Of Life ... that steals and leaps Like a panther out of the shadows ... Hyacinth sleeps. Hyacinth! Hyacinth! Open your eyes! Your blue blue eyes like the Grecian seas! Or Life will spring on your silken knees And waken you with a wild surprise Where you dream ... just a crumpled mass of gray. Hyacinth dreams in the arbour. Ah who shall say What Hyacinth dreams to-day?

THROUGH the great glowing forest, Green and dusky gold and ruddy brown, Where sunbeams filter down In showers of vibrant gold ... Through the old, old wood Passes the funeral pomp of the young, dead king. Choristers sing Strange, wailing, shuddering songs ... Old chants, so old, So desolate, drear. Heavy, deep, purple velvet drapes the bier ... Purple ... deep, passionate purple ... A regal pall Over the cold, young limbs, while the gold leaves fall On the velvet pall. On through the old wood moves The great procession; Deep, passionate purple draping the young, dead king; And the choristers sing ... And a small brown hare, Startled, in quivering panic, scurries ahead Leading the way for the king ... The king who is dead. In a bright green dell Where they can see well, Wait the butcher, the baker, The candlestick maker. “No more bread for he!” Says the baker. “No more meat for he!” Says the butcher. But the candlestick maker slaps his knee. “Not such a bad day this for me! No more meat and no more bread, But candles to burn at his feet and his head. Nor the living nor dead Can’t get on without me! And very very soon they’ll summon us three!” “For the Feast!” grins the butcher Wagging his head. “For the Feast!” says the baker, “They’ll soon need bread!” “Men can’t do without we!” They say, all three. So the butcher, the baker, The candlestick maker, Watch the procession from the small green dell Where they can all three see Exceedingly well. So the procession Passed through the wood to the blue sea shore, And they buried the king Where the blue waves sing ... And the young king rules no more. But late that night through the lonely wood Came a slim brown maid who had understood, And mated her soul with the young, dead king, With never a priest or mass or ring ... And she carried a dagger with poisoned tip, And pressed its point to her soft red lip ... And she lay on the grave, and died. Still at the turn of the year, men say, Through the old, old forest in ghostly pageant The funeral procession passes Of the young, young king Who is dead: And the gold leaves fall On his passionate purple pall, And the small brown hare still scurries ahead As if she were leading them all.

THE garden lies spattered with wet green moonlight Spilled from the night’s dark goblet; And the wraith in the garden huddles mournfully Silently watching, Upon the broad marble seat, Where white lilies and roses bloom. Wine of pale silver-green drenches the garden. The little gray wraith huddles mournfully, Silently watching. ....... On that broad marble seat to-day Sat a beautiful lady ... Through the hot golden hours of the long afternoon ... Oh a beautiful lady! With a warm wicked beauty of white, and of rose, And of ebony. Over her white breasts a long green scarf falling ... Wet, bright, apple-green. Out in the orchard, laughing With clear, evil laughter ... Ice laughter ... She had gathered some little green apples And bit them with strong white teeth. “I am Eve! I am Eve in the garden ... Come! Adam!” And he followed ... poor, passionate lover ... To the seat by the heavy white lilies and roses. (Oh far far away lie the wise castle windows Behind the rose gardens and lime trees!) But after the lovers ... after them, swiftly, swiftly, Like a fleeting gray shadow, Speeds the little gray wraith ... With feeble weak fingers of dampness Pulling with tremulous touch at his heart-strings ... Pricking like impotent tiny thorns; Nipping, and pinching, and pricking The shrivelled, black conscience of the rosy and beautiful lady. See! from the shrivelled black conscience One drop of bright, red blood, As from prick of a rose thorn ... And his heart-strings are drawn tight and knotted With tiny, weak, slipping knots Tied by feeble, damp fingers ... Slipping ... slipping ... oh slipping! But what does that matter? For Time has come to the help of the gray wraith ... Grave, gray Father Time with a handful of moments— Dust? Ashes?... He has set the rose-shrouded sundial in shadow. ....... Now the broad marble seat is empty Except where gray wraith has sunk down in the moonlight Victorious. Ah! ... the lady had dropped her bright, apple-green scarf, And it stirs like a sinuous, long snake. Is it only that one pointed corner is lifted By the stealthy, stealing, night wind? Slowly, slowly ... so feebly ... The snake lifts itself with the wind’s help, Revealing A little green apple, With some black dents where strong white teeth Have bitten it. And the small, gray wraith noiselessly moans and shudders. But what matter? For the long night passes. Only the green scarf lies harmlessly, softly, On the empty marble seat where the little gray wraith sits And watches, Victorious ... Though the green wine of moonlight is drenching The perilous garden.