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                         THE HOOFS OF PEGASUS

                                  BY
                          M. LETITIA STOCKETT

                                 1923
                     THE NORMAN, REMINGTON COMPANY
                     PUBLISHERS          BALTIMORE

                          Copyright, 1923, by
                     THE NORMAN, REMINGTON COMPANY

                       Published November, 1923.

                         PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

                                  TO
                          MARY SHIPLEY MILLS

           _The thanks of the author are due to Winfred
            Douglas for his criticism and help in arranging
            the material in this book; and to the editors
            of Poetry (Chicago), Contemporary Verse, The
            Literary Review and The Bowling Green for
            permission to include in this collection the
            poems which first appeared in these magazines._




TABLE OF CONTENTS


    PEGASUS                    13
    IN OCTOBER                 14
    SLEEP                      15
    FREE                       16
    OUR LADY OF UNDERSTANDING  17
    AT EVENTIDE                18
    SACRAMENT                  19
    TRUTH IN A WELL            20
    SILENCE                    21
    JEWELS                     22
    THE POOL                   23
    LARKSPUR                   24
    SOUNDS                     25
    TO SALARI’S MADONNA        26
    THE BATHERS                27
    AT THE SYMPHONY            28
    WEDDING SONG               29
    FEBRUARY                   30
    TO THE FOUR ARCHANGELS     31
    A PRISONER                 32
    AFTERWARD                  34
    THE ASCENT OF ISHTAR       35
    DISCOVERY                  37
    POMEGRANATES               38
    TO BOTTICELLI’S VENUS      39
    HAGAR                      40
    THE PIPER                  41
    THE JUDAS TREE             42
    WAITING                    43
    THE LAST FURROW            44
    HORSE CHESTNUTS            46
    THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER        47
    THE FALLOW FIELDS          48
    THE PATTERAN               49
    TO A MUSICIAN              50
    TEMPO                      51
    TO SCRIABINE: L’EXTASE     52
    ADAM ASLEEP                53
    AN OLD HOUSE               54
    MOONRISE                   55
    CAGED                      56




THE HOOFS OF PEGASUS




PEGASUS


    Once in a saffron twilight, rich with the sound of bells,
    In a dim meadow straying, high on the lonely fells,
    I saw Pegasus, winged Pegasus, cropping the asphodels.

    His neck was clothed with thunder, his feet with strength were shod;
    Terrible in his beauty, he grazed on the starry sod,
    A white, untameable beauty, a stallion fit for a god.

    Meekly he ranged unfettered; his wings were wet with dew,
    And where they trailed in the blossomy grass, a misty rainbow grew,
    Those strong, exultant pinions that trample the windy blue.

    Then suddenly he raised his head. I felt the pulsing beat
    Of his valiant hoofs. He sprang on the track of the stars, unleashed
          and fleet.
    I was alone; but deep in the grass was the print of his deathless
          feet.




IN OCTOBER


    In a shower of ruddy gold
    From a thinning tree
    Jove comes down.
    Naked, brown,
    The earth lies Danae.

    Still she lies with hushed breath;
    Through each dreaming clod
    Runs the fire
    Of desire,
    Passion of a god.

    Danae lies in her dark tower.
    On a March hillside
    Springs the wheat—
    There the feet
    Of young Perseus stride.




SLEEP


    Last night I slid into the sea of sleep,
    Translucent, cool and deep.
    I left my dusty self upon the sand
    Like an old garment. Naked, free,
    I felt the waves close over me;
    The curious, eager water pressed
    Against the white curve of my breast.
    Then deep, deep
    Through the green depths I sank
    Into the sea of sleep.

    This morning I rose out of the dark tide,
    I rose through darkness, and there was no light,
    No radiance to illume
    The dusk; only the pallid gloom
    Of sleep. First green, then blue,
    Then the thin water parted, and the sun shone through.
    There lay my body; strangely it was I.

    What did I bring back from the soundless deep
    From that grey, ancient sea of sleep:—

    The glint of sunken gold, the plaintive knell
    Of some drowned bell,
    Remembrance vague and dim
    Of ghostly argosies,
    The misty shores of far Hesperides,
    The wraith of mermaids beckoning white and slim,
    The faint sea-music of a curvéd shell.




FREE


    I am a beggar maiden,
    I sleep beneath a thorn,
    At night my tree is thick with stars,
    I see the slender horn
    Of the young moon,
    I see the clean
    Essential light of morn.

    The King Cophetua and his Queen
    Ride by disdainfully;
    He glitters like a dragonfly,
    A scornful mouth has she—
    A curled red leaf—
    Yet she was once
    A beggar maid like me.

    The spearmen ride before them.
    My path no mortal knows;
    A ruby smoulders on her brow,
    My thicket yields a rose.
    Dance, dusty feet!
    I’m glad I’m not
    The maid Cophetua chose.




OUR LADY OF UNDERSTANDING


    Our Lady understands
    Though prayerful are her folded hands;
    Her face is pale
    Within the azure shadow of her veil.
    Here in this shrine she seems remote, apart,
    For the dim centuries have quenched her fire,
    The slow years molded her to their desire.
    Ah, still she knows
    The ecstasy that glows
    In my wild heart!
    Once, not submissive, meek
    With pensive brow and duteous cheek,
    There came a cry exultant, strong;
    “My soul doth magnify the Lord!”
    Clear as a ringing sword
    I hear her song.
    In high humility
    She knew herself to be
    The Chosen of God, the Gate of the Divine.
    I kneel before her shrine,
    I gaze upon her tranquil face,
    Hail Mary, full of grace!
    I, too, know Love,
    And I am humble, proud, and wise.
    Our Lady understands
    All joy, all woe;
    The Son of God she laid to rest
    Upon her breast,
    She knew the wounded Hands,
    And there is nothing else to know.




AT EVENTIDE


    I shall light the candle,
    You will play for me
    In the winter twilight
    A quiet melody.

    Let there be no sorrow
    In your song, or tears,
    Let all grief be ended,
    All the iron years.

    Set our love to music,
    Like a rose in June,
    All the summer’s beauty
    In one slender tune.




SACRAMENT


    As up and down the fields I went,
    The fields of trembling wheat,
    Under the high blue heavens of June
    In summer’s poppied heat,
    I worked at homely common tasks
    Sharp stubble ’neath my feet.
    But I was not alone; I knew
    A comradeship most sweet.

    For as I gathered up the sheaves
    And bound the heavy grain,
    One whispered: “Yea, the world needs Food;
    Hungry it goes, and fain
    Am I to be its Bread, and give
    My Body for its pain.
    For this I lay in the dark earth
    Through sun and singing rain.”

    Into the vineyard I was sent,
    There One was keeping tryst.
    I cut the grapes—how beautiful
    Their bloomy amethyst!
    He said “This is my Blood, the Wine
    Poured for the world, ye wist.
    In wheat and grape ye work with me
    To make my Eucharist.”




TRUTH IN A WELL


    I peered into a well, and saw
    The blue, blue eye of God
    Look into mine far from the sun,
    Far from the friendly sod.

    And suddenly I was afraid—
    The old wives’ tales are true—
    God is the truth hid in a well,
    How dread His gaze, how blue!




SILENCE


    We are still;
    There are no words.
    Across the sky
    A wedge of birds
    Flies northward. Brown and thinned,
    A brittle leaf rasps in the wind.
    The sun creeps on from tree to tree.

    We are still.
    Were a word spoken,
    Like a troubled pool
    Is silence broken.
    Better far be dumb.
    There are depths no stone could plumb;
    Circles widen endlessly.




JEWELS


    Emerald, ruby, amethyst,
    Sardius, beryl, topaz, jade;
    All the ramparts round high Heaven
    Of these shining stones are made.

    But to beggars who must trudge
    Parched roads with weary feet,
    God has flung His jewels down
    In the very city street.

    In this meager dusty square
    Lindens bud in emerald mist
    Lilacs burdened with perfume
    Bloom in heavenly amethyst.

    Here is water crystal clear,
    Virgin jade is not more green.
    At the pool’s edge Judas trees
    Starred with ruby blossoms lean.

    Emerald, topaz, amethyst,
    Glittering unearthly bright,
    Scattered by the hand of God,
    Beryl, sardius, chrysolite.




THE POOL


    There is a pool
    Silent, dark and still,
    It holds the patterns of the trees
    The polished lacquered traceries
    Until a whimpering breeze
    Breaks the design at will.

    And through those waters dart
    Eyeless fish and blind,
    Some silver coloured as a star
    Or crimson as a bloody scar,
    Sinister their beauties are
    Like mad thoughts in the mind.

    Stranger than scaly thing
    Or imaged leaf,
    I see myself a shadow there,
    The fish are gliding through my hair
    My dull eyes have a fixed stare
    Drowned in the pool of grief.




LARKSPUR


    Out in the garden as you played,
    A breeze moved to and fro
    Across my bed of larkspur
    In grave adagio.

    The wind with touch most delicate,
    Went up and down the scale—
    Wine-dark, frail amethyst, and blue,
    Blue as Our Lady’s veil.

    You played softly to yourself,
    Your brown hands on the keys;
    And God with larkspur,
    You with sound, were making harmonies.




SOUNDS


    I shut my eyes and all around
    The room is murmurous with sound,
    Small lovely sounds without, within,
    Faint as a muted violin.

    On the low roof the quiet rain
    Falls hushingly in wistful strain,
    It makes soft music in the leaves,
    And drips staccato from the eaves.

    A grey moth flutters her frail wings
    Against the glass; the kettle sings.
    Someone is reading low and clear
    Of Roncesvalles and Oliver.

    And with this voice all sounds are blent
    In pensive slow accompaniment,
    A melody made up of rain,
    Young leaves, a grey moth on the pane.




TO SALARI’S MADONNA


    O little Son who draweth life from me,
    How deep a mystery.
    The very source of life thou art,
    And yet thou liest on my heart.

    O little Son, joy pierceth me.
    Is thus fulfilled the old man’s prophecy?
    Sweet, sweet thy lips! Nay, little Son,
    “A sword, a sword”, said Simeon.




THE BATHERS


    All in the misty weather,
    When clouds were hanging low,
    I trod a leafy woodland path
    Long, long ago.

    The cold green light of morning
    Shivered among the trees,
    The little leaves were tremulous,
    Stirred by an eery breeze.

    And then to me was given
    A sight that one might dream,
    Three maidens white and glistening,
    Bathing in a stream.

    One floated idly drifting,
    One shook her wet locks free,
    One stood as slender as a boy,
    As white as ivory;

    Naked, unshamed, untrammelled;
    Ah, never did they know,
    I saw three maidens bathing
    Long, long ago.




AT THE SYMPHONY


    The lights grow dim. There comes a hush.
    Then swiftly in a mighty rush
    As of great waters, over me
    Break the slow surges of the symphony.

    With a vast sweep majestical
    Like emerald waves that topling fall
    In foam, far off and faint begins
    The swelling beauty of the violins.

    Silence. On some far beach I’ve heard
    The high sweet keening of a bird.
    Now all the instruments are mute
    But the rich music of a lonely flute.

    Once more the wave is poised to break,
    Once more the wind-swept water shake
    My soul; and in this harmony
    I know the splendour of the trampling sea.




WEDDING SONG


    This is her room. The sunlight lies
    In squares upon the floor.
    Here are her books, the ivory god
    She brought from Singapore.

    Here she stood in shining white
    Her hands were kind and cool,
    Her eyes were very still that day,
    Serene and beautiful.

    Out in the sun the garden glowed
    And I remember this:
    The fragrance of the grapes, a shower
    Of starry clematis.




FEBRUARY


    All the rhythms of life are slow
    All the streams are choked with snow,
    Evening skies are pale,
    The very stars are still,
    On the long slope of the hill
    Woodsmoke weaves a pattern frail.

    No cloak, no pretense here;
    The earth is clean as a naked spear,
    Beauty is stripped bare;
    But she will stoop as winter lingers
    To pluck arbutus with expectant fingers,
    And weave the cold sweet blossoms in her hair.




TO THE FOUR ARCHANGELS


    If Michael lent his splintering lance
    And his blue eager blade,
    Though you with scaly dragons fight
    You would not be afraid.

    If Gabriel should stoop to you,
    A rainbow in his wings,
    What luminous secrets you would know,
    What wise and simple things!

    If Raphael with you should strive
    Until the stars grew dim,
    Angelic vigour would be yours,
    The strength of Seraphim.

    If on your sight great Uriel burned,
    Whose feet with fire are shod,
    He’d touch your earthly song of praise
    Into a flame for God.

    Michael, Gabriel, Raphael,
    Holy Uriel, guard you well.




A PRISONER


    A prisoner am I.
    In fivefold gyves and strong
    I shall be captive, bound,
    My whole life long.
    But fettered, I shall make my bonds
    Into a shining song.

    For if it were not for the chains I bear
    I should be unaware
    Of the frail splendour of a peacock pacing slow,
    Rich, opalescent dyes,
    Blue, green, bronze-burnished, lustrous argent eyes—
    A fanfarade
    Of lapis, azure, emerald and jade—
    A glory of spread plumes where shattered rainbows played.

    And never should I know
    The sound of running water soft and low,
    The hushed grey music of a summer rain,
    A plain song cadence, beautiful and strange,
    Old wistful chants scarred with lost Eden’s pain.

    Nor should I mark the rough austerity
    Of surf, the rude caress of waves that buffet me.
    Or find delight
    In the cool touch of smoothéd ivory.

    And always I should lack
    The scent of burning leaves, the poignant smack
    Of box; or heliotrope in the hot sun;
    Primroses opening their pale stars one by one.

    Then, too, I should forego the savour of fresh bread.
    Clear-dripping honey thick with the perfume
    Of the red clover bloom.
    And never should I cool my parchéd mouth
    With luscious apricots, warm, tinctured of the South.

    God, when my body must
    Return to dust,
    O let me be
    Not utterly set free
    From these my friendly bonds!
    O let me use them there, as here, for Thee
    With deeper rapture, keener ecstasy.




AFTERWARD


    Now I remember very plain:
    A sumac leaf was red,
    The bloom of grape was on the hills,
    The river was a twisted thread.

    That day I marked not leaf nor hill,
    Nor rivers to the sea—
    I was my lover’s garden closed,
    I was his tower of ivory.




THE ASCENT OF ISHTAR


    At the first gate they gave the veil to Ishtar:
    On earth a pear tree trembles into bloom,
    The poplar weaves a web of changeful green and silver,
    Lord Tammuz comes back from his dusty tomb.

    At the second gate they sped her on the journey,
    They gave her bracelets for her hands and slender feet:
    Through the reeds the wind goes piping, piping,
    The flutes of Tammuz are piping shrill and sweet.

    And the jewelled circlet they bound about her waist.
    Can a ruby make the Daughter of the Moon more fair?
    Like bright spears in battle are the young men,
    And the maidens braid the pomegranate blossoms in their hair.

    About the breasts of Ishtar they bound the sumptuous ornaments.
    The necklace they surrendered, and caused her to depart.
    And the cedar knows the Lady’s strength and her dominions,
    For the Dweller in the Morning Star makes strong the cedar’s heart.

    At the sixth gate they brought to Lady Ishtar
    The ear-rings, lovely as the silver-threaded rain;
    On the housetops there is the pleasant sound of showers,
    And on the slopes the green swords of grain.

    At the seventh gate they crowned the Queen of Heaven,
    She has brought back Tammuz from the house of death.
    The winter is past, the rain is gone and over,
    And sweet is the vineyard in the south wind’s breath.




DISCOVERY


    A bird to me was just a bird,
    A feathered thing one often heard
    Piping in the early dawn
    In the lilacs on the lawn.
    But from you I learned to see
    All the beauty there can be
    In the birds—the deep wood note
    Throbbing in the veery’s throat,
    A cardinal adventuring by
    As if a poppy tried to fly.
    God speaks indeed from bush and tree
    Since you discovered birds for me.




POMEGRANATES


    In city streets the blue dusk falls.
    The lights prick out. Folks hurry by.
    Buses are thronged. Sleek motors flash.
    “Extra—ship sunk!” the newsboys cry.

    Before a little shop I pause
    Where Pietro sells, strange, precious fruit,
    Great globes of scarlet, heaps of gold
    Barbaric as a pirate’s loot.

    I see pomegranates glowing there,
    And I forget the strident night,
    I hear the song of Solomon—
    “Return, return, O Shulamite.

    Thy lips are like a scarlet thread,
    O prince’s daughter, thou art fair;
    Thy garments are perfumed with myrrh,
    With aloes drips thy braided hair.”

    Dim fragrant gardens close me in,
    The city as a dream has gone,
    And from the South I feel the winds
    Blow soft from cedared Lebanon.




TO BOTTICELLI’S VENUS


    In the early dawning before the sun had risen
    The wind piped mournfully along the lonely sand,
    The sea lay desolate, sunless, desolate,
    There was no light upon the deep or light upon the land.

    Before the sun had risen in the cold green twilight
    Came a Lady from the foam, a Lady wistful eyed,
    The crinkled waves beneath her feet ran eagerly before her,
    She drifted in from alien seas at the turn of the tide.

    Light came into the world with her. I knelt before her beauty,
    Her pure and awful nakedness unaware of shame,
    Her slender fingers hiding the apple of her bosom,
    Her red gold hair unfilleted blown like a windy flame.

    Softly blew the winds about her, softly fell the blossoms,
    But in her face was sorrow for the long years to be:
    The kiss beneath the olives, the anguish of betrayal,
    Her grief was for the wounds of Love, Our Lady of the Sea.




HAGAR


    The desert trembles in the heat
    The water pools are bitter.
    Boy, we follow the camel track;
    Sarah rides in a scarlet litter.

    Here is the water, Ishmael,
    The bread your father gave.
    Sarah crumbles a wheaten cake,
    Her cup is filled by an eager slave.

    Tonight our tent is hung with stars.
    In comfort Sarah rests.
    Abram dreams of the bondwoman,
    Of Hagar’s brown breasts.

    Lord Osiris hear me!
    Isis, Heavenly One!
    All men’s hands are against me,
    But mine was the first-born son.




THE PIPER


    You laid your slender fingers,
      Your fingers long and brown,
    Upon the pipes, and lured me
      Far from the stolid town.

    You piped me to the greenwood,
      And there, when grace was said,
    We brake and ate together
      The fairy’s secret bread.

    Oh then my ears were opened
      And magically I heard
    The small leaves talk together,
      The gossip of a bird.

    Bewitched? There is no telling:
      But always, till I’m dead,
    I’ll hear your silver piping
      And eat your fairy bread.




THE JUDAS TREE


    Winter to my tree has lent
    Beauty clean and innocent,
    Here no purple flowers blow,
    But crystal blossoms of the snow,
    Every crooked bough is set
    With starry petals delicate.

    Judas flung the silver down,
    And hanged himself beyond the town:
    Spring returns. The traitor blood
    Quickens in each scarlet bud.
    Frost and snow remember not—
    Mercy on Iscariot.




WAITING


    I will be silent,
    But in the hush
    My heart will sing
    Like a hermit thrush.

    I will be silent
    I’ll say no word,
    My love shall burn
    Like a flame unstirred.

    I will be silent,
    My joy I’ll hide,
    And wait as the sand
    For the turn of tide.




THE LAST FURROW

(ON EDWARD CALVERT’S WOODCUT)


    And suddenly my field was Heaven:
      I saw a shepherd stand
      On the edge of my ploughed land,
      And every dusty furrow shone with gold.
      And every leaf and blade of grass
      Whose common loveliness I had let pass
      Now did unfold
      New beauties to my sight.
      God was that Shepherd garmented in light.

    And there was singing:
      In a beechen wood
      Three maidens stood
      And with their music praised God
      In a sweet and pleasant hymn.
      They danced, three maidens white and slim
      A measure, delicately trod.
      He loves no sad austerities,
      God is well praised by nymphs beneath the trees.

    My field was Heaven.
      An angel sped
      With a bright bolt, and pierced the Serpent’s head,
      Satan is under heel. Good beasts, enthralled,
      Velvet mole, and leathern wing,
      Worm with fiery sting,
      And every noisome slug that crawled
      Are all set free. God is not in some alien place.
      In my ploughed field I saw the brightness of his face.




HORSE CHESTNUTS


    In April my horse chestnuts
    Were beautiful to see!
    Tapers set on every bough
    Like candles on a tree.
    But now in late October
    With frosty nights and cold
    There is more poignant beauty
    In their dim tarnished gold.




THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER


    Then Jesus said, “I thirst”, and there was one
    Who filled a spunge, and put it to His mouth—
    An unknown Roman soldier—his the joy
    In the three hours to quench that sacred drouth.

    They had been dicing, and the seamless coat
    Had fallen to him. Now the thick darkness came
    Over the land. He watched the Crucified
    Wondering, in doubt, this soldier without name.

    “Bacchus! The Jew knew how to die. The nails
    Were blunt. He neither railed nor cursed.
    Even the sturdy thief had called him ‘Lord’”.
    At the ninth hour there came the cry, “I thirst”.

    The Roman held the vinegar to his lips,
    And looked with pity on His dying Face.
    O Unknown Soldier, pray for me to give
    My love’s poor wine, and give it with such grace.




THE FALLOW FIELDS


    Let the fields lie fallow
    Bare and brown.
    Let the great winds stride over them
    And the snow come down.

    Let them lie open to the sun
    To the patient rain,
    And the dews whiten them
    E’er they yield again.

    Plough in the sturdy weed,
    The common flower,
    Let their wild vigor yield
    A lusty dower.

    Then after sun and snow
    After dew and sleet
    From the earth will spring the green
    Flame of the wheat.




THE PATTERAN


    I’m married to a proper wife,
    My home is clean and neat,
    But I hear the gypsies calling me,
    I love the dancing feet.

    I long to up and follow them
    Over the rolling moor;
    I sicken of my own hearth-fire,
    The lilacs by the door.

    I long to see the sweep of stars
    Wheel nightly overhead;
    I want the four strong winds to be
    The four posts of my bed.

    I long to wake at dawn
    When all the world is grey and cool,
    And slip into the lonely depth
    Of a mountain pool.

    Three meals my wife sets for me—
    Enough for any man.
    But on her freshly sanded floor
    I see the patteran.




TO A MUSICIAN


    I thought that only God could make the rain,
    But when you laid your hands upon the keys
    The room was full of gentle harmonies—
    An eager shower pattering on the pane,
    The hushed and wistful tread
    Of rain at night that marches overhead,
    The kind, grey rain that stills the windy trees.

    I thought that only God could make a star,
    But I have heard your fingers build the sky,
    Have watched the yellow dusk of autumn die
    And night creep up the east immense and far,
    Then glittering and bright,
    I’ve seen the Hunter girt with silver light,
    Orion with his shining hounds sweep by.

    I thought that only God could make the sea,
    But in your music the unbounded deep
    Is gathered up as in a treasure heap—
    Calm spaces, rocks where singing tides run free,
    The cloudy-emerald foam
    Ships on the world’s dim verge, far, far from home,
    And pools unrippled where the hushed winds sleep.




TEMPO


    My body could play delicate tunes,
    Music exquisite and thin,
    But I must keep it in its case
    Like a violin.

    A Scherzo prances in my blood,
    Mercurial and quick;
    I pirouette—the box snaps tight
    With a malicious click.

    A Saraband is not for me,
    It makes the varnish crack.
    I must play a grave, grave tune
    Slow and elegiac!




TO SCRIABINE: L’EXTASE


    Not with the drums, the throbbing scarlet drums,
    Not with the voice of a silver flute,
    Not with the brazen clangour of cymbals,
    Nor the trumpets slitting the silence;
    Not with the maelstrom of sound
    Monstrous, prodigious,
    Comes ecstasy.
    But with stillness
    As when a flame burns unflickering
    In far, empty places;
    With the quiet of a leaf falling in the forest;
    With the hush of the elevation of the Host.




ADAM ASLEEP


    Far away I hear the voices of four rivers flowing,
    Wings in the thicket, and the four winds blowing.
    Adam sleeps in Eden. In this still place
    I lie within his circling arm and look upon his face.

    God walks in the garden when the day is cool,
    But the face of Adam is far more beautiful;
    He is like the splendour of the sun at noon,
    And the slope of his body like the white young moon.

    Of what is he dreaming as he lies at rest?
    Of God in the Garden? Or Lilith’s breast?
    Adam sleeps in Eden, but down in the brake
    I watch the cool glitter of a painted snake.




AN OLD HOUSE


    I love an old house,
    It is like an aged face,
    The worn lines,
    The strange, defeated grace.

    Sorrow looks through these windows
    Through the crooked glass.
    And the sill is hollow
    Where Death’s feet pass.

    But there is yet a beauty,
    A triumph, a haughty thrust;
    The meek defiance of ancient loveliness
    Before the dust is dust.




MOONRISE


    Like a white lotus flower the moon unfolds
    Her luminous petals and the stars grow pale.
    Vague mists withdraw, grey shadows o’er the water
    Shadows of twilight tremulous and frail.
    The flutes of dusk are still; new worlds unveil;
    God for such moments made the nightingale.

    And yet, O Philomel, thou couldst not chant
    From the cool shadow of a cedar tree,
    So high a lay as this I hear in rapture,
    The song his utter silence sings to me.
    Of the brown earth is thy winged melody.
    But God is in this wordless ecstasy.




CAGED


    I have a caged bird,
    He beats the bars;
    Wild and bright his eyes,
    On his breast, scars.

    An oriole whistles;
    My bird has not a note,
    Though I can see the song
    Trembling in his throat.

    Other birds fly south
    To the green pampas floor,
    But in the blue air
    Mine spreads his wings no more.

    I have a caged bird,
    He neither flies nor sings,
    But when the house is still
    I hear the beat of wings.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Hoofs of Pegasus, by M. Letitia Stockett