Oh, how beautiful, in the temple of the woods, From the Russian of Konstantin Balmont Translated by Edith Chapman Tracy (tr) EASY PARTING You are relieved and grateful And so you show respect To the gallant courage, Playing up in this defeated moment. You can not see That this is only the shell of her, Who, in the long lonely nights, While beside her you slept unmindful, Knew that sometime her heart would fail, And killed herself By tiny fragments Years ago. Mildred Cummer Wood APPULDURCOMBE PARK I am a woman, sick for passion,. I am a woman, sick for passion, Crumbling the beech-leaves to powder in my fingers. From his invalid chair: "Mary, Mary, where are you, Mary? I want you." Why does he want me? When I come he only pats my hand And asks me to settle his cushions. Poor little beech-leaves, Slowly falling, Crumbling, In the great park. But there are many golden beech-leaves I am a woman, sick for passion, You hurt me with your colors, Your reds and yellows lance at me like flames. Oh, I am sick-sick And your darting loveliness hurts my heart. You burn me with your parrot-tongues. Flame! My husband taps on the window with his stick: "Mary, come in. I want you. You will take cold." I am a woman, sick for passion, Gazing at a white moon hanging over tall lilies. And a wind ruffles my hair. There is a scrape of gravel behind me, A red coat crashes scarlet against the lilies. I thought you were playing piquet with Sir Kenelm." I am sick-sick-for your heart. Keep away from me, Cousin-Captain. Does your heart beat so loud, Beloved? I must go in and give my husband his posset. "Mary, where are you? I want you." I am a woman, sick for passion, Waiting in the long, black room for the funeral procession to pass. I sent a messenger to town last night. When will you come? Under my black dress a rose is blooming. A rose? a heart?-it rustles for you with open petals. Come quickly, Dear, For the corridors are full of noises. In this fading light I hear whispers, And the steady, stealthy purr of the wind. What keeps you, Cousin-Captain? What was that? "Mary, I want you." Nonsense, he is dead, Buried by now. Oh, I am sick of these long, cold corridors! Why do you not come? I am a woman, sick—sick— Sick of the touch of cold paper, Poisoned with the bitterness of ink. Snowflakes hiss, and scratch the windows. "Mary, where are you?" That voice is like water in my ears; I cannot empty them. He wanted me, my husband, But these stone parlors do not want me. Only your white sword spoke the truth. "Mary! Mary!" Will nothing stop the white snow Sifting, Sifting? Will' nothing stop that voice, Drifting through the wide, dark halls? The tower-clock strikes eleven dully, stifled with snow. Softly over the still snow, Softly over the lonely park, Softly Yes, I have only my slippers, but I shall not take cold. A little dish of posset. Do the dead eat? I have done it so long, Amy Lowell |