WOMEN

I never see a blue jay But I think of her; Never hear that hoarse "dear—dear" From a tree-top stir, And the answering call Far, far away, And the flash of azure— Oh, she would stay Listening in the forest, Loitering through the silence, Hearing calls and singing All the livelong day!

She who paddles swiftly, Lithe and brown in the sun, And dances, lithe as an Indian princess In the barbaric days of splendour Might have done— She can laugh and jest too, Play and wine and dine; But none of these things have wooed me, Bound me close by a mystery, Made her eternally mine. For we have found still places Deep in the wood; Climbed a ledge of grey rock Where a pink-legged heron stood; Heard the distant loon's cry; Watched a lonely bird fly— And she does not stir then, Does not turn to me then, But softly walks in the forest In no great need of men.

"I dress him sweet," the woman told me, "All in white with a frill of lace. See his hair An' the curls that's on it! Do ye know a girl with a safter face?

"If so I keep him till five or over, There's not a one will steal him then! With a saft wee girl They'd never bother, The thievin' fairies down in the glen.

"Never take chances!" the woman warned me, "For a boy is the thing that sticks to your heart!" But I was mad! I had decked mine bravely; He was moulded a man from the very start.

I met a woman of the Ward; She was in gay attire; Her blouse was blue, her toes were through, Her ear-rings flashed like fire.

A little boy with lustrous eyes Tugged at her coloured skirt; His skin was warm as the southern born, And he was caked in dirt.

Two women on the sunny street— We fell to friendly talk Of grocers' ways, and how it pays To purchase as you walk.

I asked her, as a neighbour might, If she had news to tell. She answered me, "Oh, quiet-lee, I think we soon raise hell!

"Too much we give to grocer-men; Too much the rich have place; More war to-day is the only way To put rich in hees place!

"We speak a leetle, you and I, Some papers scatter round, Soon rich will be, quite quiet-lee, All trampled on the ground.

"My man, he has a job all right, But he might have much more. Make leetle war, and there we are: No rich man at our door."

The dusky boy with lustrous eyes Listened to his mamma, And then said he, quite quiet-lee, "Most dear, to-day I saw

"One motor car that I will own When I am grown a man!" His beauty spoke, in eyes, in throat, As just sheer beauty can.

And she forgot the little war, The beckoning blood and dirt; She smoothed his curls, so like a girl's, And smoothed his gay striped shirt.

"Grow up, be good, my little boy; One motor you may run!" Her eyes burned deep, war fell asleep As she looked on her son.

* * * * *

I met a woman of the Ward; She was in gay attire; Her blouse was blue, her toes were through, Her ear-rings flashed like fire.

Footsteps of youth through the springtime playing, Footfalls of snow in a blue mist straying, The rose of Russia in a bright wind swaying— A rose of fire and snow.

Voices chanting everywhere, but no word said, Fairy bells from ancient towers signalling the dead, Light love tuning viols while the dance runs red— A flaming dance of death.

White barbaric winters and a sky star-strung, All the hidden pathways, all the songs unsung, Caught in flying footsteps over wild music hung— She dances, and the Czar lies dead.

Oh, the cries, and martyrdoms, and fatal morns, Scarlet nights and fiery wine and bitter scorns, Dancing in a rose of joy from a field of thorns— Rapture from a land of thorns!

Here is blue fire That burns mere youth away And leaves sheer passion. Out of the coloured flame What pageantries arise, As that caressing tone, Through shimmering veils of harp and flute, Seems to peer ghost-like down Into a million hearts in nights long gone— Into a million eyes!

There is a black mantilla Of ancient Spanish lace Over the deep blue gown. The voice of Carmen sings again, The mocking voice of Carmen, scarlet still With love and certain doom. In it there swings a sword, And through it blows a laughing word— That strange, and quite inevitable word That time can never kill.

Was ever a woman Quite alone for a day? Other women will come Who should stay away.

Because my casement's open, As I wait here for you, Comes the faint Persephone Trailing through the dew.

She has lived a thousand years, Clasped her cosmic rose; Why she comes to trouble me Only heaven knows!

And there's another woman Keeps whispering in my ear, Till she has the whole house Pierced through with fear.

Some wandering nun it is, Whose lips can only pray, Has made my house a cloister In this dreary way.

And even now your taxi Must be racing through the town. (Will you love me, O my lover, In this pale yellow gown?)

I have written out a sign That I hope they will obey— "For all Peering Women There is no Right of Way."

I never wore slippers On sweet April evenings, But boots made for roads that we travelled in woe, For morning and evening Meant rough wayside places And feet that were slow.

But now silver slippers, Light-mannered, bright slippers, Great mirror-like floors and a green velvet lawn, Where we beckon with laughter, With music, with dancing, Sad youth—that is gone.

Oh, the days of the week they are constantly seven! And as certain to stay as the fixed stars in heaven. But my heart that denies them will wander away To find a more likeable, well furnished day That I know exists somewhere, invisible, real, And shining with moments the seven days steal.

The stocking I've wanted to darn since the spring, The folk-song, forgotten, that calls me to sing, The little old lady I hurry to see, The cumbersome caller, long promised to tea, Or the half-hidden passion pushed by through the week: These surely may people the day that I seek.

Sometimes I shall play with a soul never born: A companion I met on the far side of morn. I shall nod at the losses I wept for last night, And find my to-morrows expectant and bright. But mostly I think the whole twenty-four hours Will be spent in designing a new bed of flowers; For everyone's heart, when it wanders away, Has its own things to do on a fabulous day.

My house is arrayed In its garlands of Christmas delight; A red rose is this house In its holly and soft candle light.

But my heart is as cold As the heart of a colourless rose, And I feel the dead weight Of your holiday blanket of snows.

The day you died, that April yesterday, I was alone in sunny meadow places, When, turning a dark clump of wintry leaves, I caught a glimpse of exquisite fresh faces, Renewing earth.

Then, thinking of another April day When you and I found bloom beneath the snow, I sent you happy thoughts across the world, Not dreaming it the day you were to go— But yesterday.

Yet, oh, not lost! how many a year shall turn, And youth and age, lonely for some bright way, Shall sudden feel you on the face of earth And push back death, and pluck you like the may— Immortal Song!

I who cut patterns, As every soul must do, Fret myself with longing For themes that are new.

All these fashions Were moulded years gone by, And, like the mask of politics, Are coloured with a lie.

Even the treasured love motif, This thing of you and me, It must so carefully be cut To keep us bound, yet free.

And death, the sombre casket Of centuries of song, And war, and rivalries and creeds, These we have used too long.

To-day I found a charming thing Of silk and golden lace, And yet, beneath the filigree, What an old, wrinkled face!

Still, I believe in legends Of laughter and delight, And words all coloured with the sun And perfumed by the night.

And I've a mind to leave the shops And fashions old and new, And cut my pattern from a wind, And baste it up with dew.

I who cut patterns, As every soul must do, Fret myself with longing For themes that are new.

You who loved all lovely things And wrought in jewelled lines; You have gone your gracious ways That are patterned in dim stones Of perfumed, faint-hued words; You were a thing so feminine That even of war you sang in tender notes, But now another one has come, Who is herself at war. Her songs are keen and glittering, For she has felt the magic fire That you did long ago; But now the fire has burned clean through And forged a sword of steel. Swinging swords are women's songs That gleam as hard as diamonds do, And mean to cut tradition.

And yet those jewelled lines! Strangely the ancient magic works, Strangely the same fire lurks And burns imprisoned there In your dim, opaled words, That run like paths in heaven Paved in mosaic of sweet stones, And make a scented highway for our feet, Who wield these swinging swords.