the secret poems of mary c. landon

the secret poemsof mary c. landonmary landon mackenzie’scollected poetry, 1931 to 1937edited by lee manchester

The secret poemsof Mary C. Landon

The Secret Poemsof Mary C. LandonBy Mary Landon MacKenzieEdited by Lee ManchesterCOPYRIGHT © 2005, LAKE PLACID PUBLIC LIBRARYALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Secret Poems of Mary C. LandonFirst published as a supplement to the Spring 2005 issue of Bluelinemagazine as “Collected poetry, 1931 to 1937,” by Mary LandonMacKenzieThe poems of Mary Caroline Landon MacKenzie are copyright ©2005, Lake Placid (N.Y.) Public Library. All rights reserved. RobinSmith, who inherited the poems from Mary Landon MacKenzie,assigned the copyright for them to the library in 2004.Foreword by Lee Manchester copyright © 2005, Lake Placid (N.Y.)Public Library. All rights reserved.Mary MacKenzie’s obituary profile, written by Lee Manchester, wasfirst published in the April 25, 2003, issue of the Lake Placid News.Reprinted by permission.“A Ship for Singapore,” by Daniel Whitehead Hicky, first appearedin the book “Bright Harbor,” published in 1932 by Henry Holt & Co.“A Ship for Singapore” was reprinted early that year in McCall’smagazine. The poem was also used as the lyric for a song, music byKenneth Walton, arranged by William Stickles, published in 1935 byChappell-Harms Inc., an apparently defunct music publisher out ofRockefeller Center in Manhattan.

ForewordThis is an unusual volume of poetry, in more ways than youwould ever imagine.A young Lake Placid woman wrote these poems.She wrote the first of them when she was 17 years old andalready a year out of high school.She wrote the last of them — at least, the last of those witha date on them — when she was 23.And then, as far as we know, she just stopped writingpoetry.She built a career, made a marriage, planted a garden, raiseda house, climbed more than a few mountains, pursued a hobby ingeology, and became active in local politics.Later in her life, she agreed to start compiling the history ofher community, a task to which she dedicated nearly 40 years ofher life. She became widely known — and well loved — for herskill, her insight, her voice, and her commitment to the NorthCountry.And, through all of that, she hid away the poetry she hadwritten as a young woman, telling no one that she’d written it.She saved it away, probably not knowing why but saving itnonetheless — because it was precious to her.Thank goodness that she did.THESE POEMS were written by Mary C. Landon, betterknown by her married name of Mary MacKenzie, who becamethe official historian of North Elba township and the village ofLake Placid.Mary died in the spring of 2003 at the age of 89. She wasknown among those interested in regional history as an energetic,rigorous researcher and imaginative prose stylist. Besides herreputation as a prolific, highly respected local historian, Mary wasalso known as a lifelong hiker and ADK member, an amateurgeologist, and a renowned gardener.Her family and friends, however, did not know everythingabout Mary Landon MacKenzie. After she died we made asurprising discovery: There, in a drawer in her desk, was a largebundle of carefully typed poems, nearly all of them written

etween 1931 and 1937, from Mary Landon’s late teens into herearly twenties. Many of the poems were, of course, merelyinteresting — but many were deep and surprisingly well-written,or so it seemed at least to those who loved her.What was most surprising to us about Mary Landon’spoetry, however, wasn’t the poems themselves; it was their veryexistence. No one close to her had known a thing about heryouthful avocation as a poet — yet there was the evidence, pagesand pages of it, secretly preserved for more than 65 years.Clearly, Mary wanted us to find and read that poetry. Herimpending death had been no secret — not to her, nor to anyoneelse — and she had carefully gone through all her papers wellbefore her final hour, disposing of everything she did not wantothers to find after she had gone. Yet there was this bundle ofpoems, bound with a rubber band, sitting all by itself in a drawer,obviously waiting to be found.No one close to her knew then that she had written poetry— and no one knows why, when she was 23, she suddenlystopped.But there it was, all that poetry, waiting for us to do whatwe would with it.And, thanks to the generosity of Mary’s family and the LakePlacid Public Library, here it is in your hands, at last: a book thathas been waiting patiently for you since 1937.It’s been worth the wait.Lee ManchesterEditor

Mary C. Landon’s 1930Lake Placid High Schoolyearbook picture

Mary LandonMacKenzie1914–2003(Reprinted from the Lake Placid News, April 25, 2003)Seventeen years ago a student wrote a letter to MaryMacKenzie, official historian for Lake Placid and North Elbatownship. MacKenzie had recently spoken to his school class.Dear Ms. MacKenzie,I’m glad you came to our school.I want to know something. How do you know so muchabout Lake Placid?Your friend,Donny HareA couple of weeks later, MacKenzie wrote back:Dear Donny,You were nice to write me, and I’m answering yourletter as you asked.You want to know how I know so much about LakePlacid and its history. Well, I guess it’s like everythingelse. If you want to learn about a subject, you have to doa lot of studying, and that’s what I have done for 25 years.I’ve also gone to a lot of places to find out about our past— the National Archives in Washington, D.C., all the stateoffices in Albany, our county clerk’s office, and manymuseums. I have also studied old newspapers, booksand magazines. It is a lot of hard work, but a lot of fun,too.Sincerely,Mary MacKenzie“A lot of hard work, but a lot of fun, too.”That was how Mary MacKenzie approached her job ofnearly four decades as local historian, first of the town of NorthElba, then of the village of Lake Placid — a job she defined asshe went, gathering the documentary and photographic traces ofour past, cataloguing them, and making sense of the patterns theyrevealed to an ever-interested community.

Mary died last week, on Tuesday, April 15. She was 89years old. She had suffered from a painful, prolonged illness, onethat led her to relinquish her historian’s post a little more than ayear ago to a well-trained successor, Bev Reid.That same illness was what finally wore Mary down, saymembers of her family. In the end, her heart simply gave out.MARY WAS born in Lake Placid on March 12, 1914.No sooner had she graduated from Lake Placid High Schoolin 1930, at the age of 16, than she went to work for ErnestGamache, executive secretary of the local committee preparingfor the 3 rd Olympic Winter Games, scheduled here for 1932.“I don’t know how much time she actually put on the job,though,” said niece Nancy Beattie, co-owner of Bookstore Pluson Main Street and publisher of Mary’s book, “Lake Placid andNorth Elba: A History, 1800-2000.”“In her desk we found notebooks with page after page oftruly astonishing poetry she wrote during that time,” Beattie said,“some of it surprisingly deep.”Mary’s work with the Olympic Committee decided her on acareer as a secretary. Over the years she worked as a legalsecretary, as Lake Placid’s acting village clerk, and for 21 yearsas Henry Uihlein’s personal secretary and office manager atHeaven Hill Farm. She retired from secretarial work in 1976.By that time Mary had already been official town historianfor North Elba for a dozen years, receiving her appointment in1964. Three years earlier she had been one of the foundingmembers of the Lake Placid-North Elba Historical Society,created in 1961. She remained active in the society for the rest ofher life, serving as an officer, a trustee and editor of its quarterlybulletin.Over the years Mary joined at least eight more county,regional, state and national historical associations, always usingthe expertise she gained to help her interpret local history for areacivic and school groups. By the mid-1990s she had given morethan 100 talks on Lake Placid history and had overseen thecreation of more than 100 photo slides of historic photographs foruse in her interpretive lectures.When the Mill Pond dam broke in April 1970, Mary wasone of those who rallied the community behind their effort torebuild the structure that had played such a key role in Lake

Placid’s history. She explained the importance of its restoration ina pamphlet she wrote for project:Mill Pond was born about 1853 … Two men laid a logdam across the Chubb River, impounding a picturesquebody of water for the operation of a sawmill. … The pondwas steeped in the early history of Lake Placid. … Thevillage rose and grew and flourished on its shingle, sawand grist mills. … A railroad station, blacksmith shop,slaughter house, the American House hotel, GeorgeWhite’s Opera House, old-time country stores — all theselined the shores.Today, thanks to Mary and the rest of her committee, theMill Pond dam stands again on the Chubb River, across from therailroad station on Averyville Road at the foot of Mill Hill offCascade Road.Mary’s MacKenzie’s unique position as both town historianand former secretary to the director of the 3 rd Olympic WinterGames led ABC Television and other media outlets to draw onher as a key source before and during the 1980 Games in LakePlacid. Shortly after the conclusion of those Games, Lake Placidnamed Mary its official village historian.For many years Mary MacKenzie had planned to write abook about Lake Placid and North Elba’s history, dating back notmerely to the creation of the village (1900), the township (1850)or the first local settlement (1800) — but to the area’s geologicalformation, millions of years ago. Mary was, you see, not only ahistorian but also an avid amateur rock hound. She first joined theNorthland Rock and Mineral Club in 1962, serving at differenttimes as its program chairwoman and vice president.AND THAT wasn’t all.Mary was a long-time member of the Garden Club of LakePlacid, first joining in 1959. She was twice elected to the club’sexecutive board, first in 1959 and again in 1967.She also had an abiding interest in local partisan politics. In1955 she joined the North Elba Women’s Republican Club,serving as its president in 1961 and 1962. From 1962 to 1964 shealso served on the Lake Placid Village Republican Committee.Mary finally published a book on local history last year, justa few months before her death, with the help of nephew ChrisBeattie and his wife Nancy. That book, however, was by no

means the only publication to result from Mary’s historicscholarship. She wrote numerous articles for Adirondack Lifemagazine, The Conservationist and Encyclopedia Americana aswell as the two local newspapers, the Adirondack DailyEnterprise and the Lake Placid News.Mary was also a frequent contributor to the newsletters ofall the local historical societies. Two of her articles for the LakePlacid-North Elba society’s newsletter were reprinted aspamphlets for sale at the society’s museum. One of them,“History of the Village of Lake Placid, New York,” firstpublished in 1970, is still probably the best short history of thecommunity available.Mary MacKenzie was recognized over and over again forher extraordinary work as a local historian:• For 10 years she was listed in the “Who’s Who of AmericanWomen” because of her contributions to Adirondack history.• In 1992 she was inducted into the Lake Placid Hall of Fame.• She won the Clinton County Historical Society’s McMastersPrize.• She was given the “Bessie” Award of the North CountryLocal Historians Association for community service aboveand beyond the call of duty.• In 1997 the Association of Municipal Historians of New YorkState chose her as its Outstanding Historian of the Year.Finally, following the publication of her book last year, Mary wonwhat she said was the award that meant the most to her, theEdmund J. Winslow Local Government Historian’s Award forExcellence. The award, given jointly by the Office of the StateHistorian of New York and the Association of Public Historiansof New York State, recognizes excellence in one or more publichistory projects or publications.MARY BEGAN one of her many talks with a quote fromHenry David Thoreau:Thoreau used to have a marvelous answer for peoplewho asked him what the extent of his travels had been.He used to say, “I have traveled a great deal in Concord,Massachusetts.” Well, if anyone were to ask me where Ihad traveled, I could very well answer, “I have traveled agreat deal in the town of North Elba.” I guess I’m luckierthan most because, in my job as historian of North Elba,

I’ve had to do a lot of research and snooping around, andI’ve been able to learn in a comparatively short time whatthe average resident would not learn in a lifetime.This Saturday, April 26, Mary MacKenzie’s travels throughthe town of North Elba will come to an end. A memorial servicewill be held at 11 a.m. in the North Elba Cemetery. Family andfriends are invited to be present at the interment of her cremains.Mary Landon MacKenzieMarch 12, 1914 — April 15, 2003

The poemsUndated1. The churchyard of Bree19312. A black cat walks among my roses3. Desire4. American tragedy No. 15. Upon being asked why I am late6. We shall climb a windy hill19327. Quest8. Forgotten9. Disillusion10. To Sonja Henie, upon seeing her for thefirst time at the III Olympic Winter Games11. Coquette12a. A ship for Singapore—by Daniel Whitehead Hicky12b. Answer to Daniel Whitehead Hicky13. Supplication14. An old love15. Song16. Gypsy tea17. Two candles18. A night at home19. I fall in love again20. A sleepless night21. Marcy trail on a rainy day

193322. American tragedy No. 223. Hic jacet24. Seen from a window in the town hall25. Discourse to an Episcopal clergyman26. Strategem, or, love’s labor lost27. To Lenore, telling my fortune28. Shades of Utopia29. The hour flies30. The return31. Over the teacups32. Poem without a title33. Maris34. Justice Court35. Cacoethes scribendi36. Lake Placid Club chimes37. Goodbye38. No answer39. Epitaph40. To a man upon hearing himsuck his teeth for the 14 th time193441. Ennui, produced by inconsistencies of the weather42. Orchestra43. Spring fantasy44. Miser45. Hunger (a short story)46. On things Oscar Wilde47. Passing stranger48. Mise en scene

49. The sophisticates50. Thought at dusk51. Lines for winter52. Lines to Omar Khayyam53. Negro dancer54. An open letter to Ogden Nash55. Epitaph (after Keats)193556. The song I sing57. Will of Lucy Ann Walker, 185358. Prayer for spring59. Song of a sailor (written incollaboration with Marjorie)60. A jingle61. Desolation62. Voices63. Spring evening (Rachmaninoff’s Prelude,heard through an open window)64. Ballad of a bird who flew free65. Frogs sang in the morning66. To a certain young man whorequested me to write a poem about him67. Warning68. Delusion69. Dream journey70. Old man on a porch71. Farewell, and give applause72. Words for a song73. Enchanted74. Night waking75. The lost lover

193676. Ten-Fork River (a river chantey)77. Rendezvous78. Evening in April79. Song of the vagabond80. So still the silver maples are81. Barbary Coast82. Hill song83. Vigilante84. Dark hills, northward85. Hegira86. Since I must sing of sorrow87. Bugles88. When years have carven memory of this day89. Masquerade90. Weatherwise91. Letter to Korea92. Opalescent Gorge93. I shall go back94. Night running brook95. Desert flower96. If to the last hill97. Here lies Jennifer Downs98. Now farewell, Bree99. Escape100. Wear you a crown to die for101. Let these be1937102. Here lies a most beautiful lady103. Mine was the voice

104. When I lie down in Leydon Square105. Fraught with the mum of dreams106. Treasure107. Oh, man, if you behold her108. None that will find him here109. Quarrel have I none110. The shadow on the wall111. Surf112. When from the wings of day113. Letitia Appleby114. From out the star-girt eventide115. Look away from these hills116. Thus to remain117. These118. The travelers119. I will bring you brown rain120. From Ram to Hammersea121. October planting122. Out of the waves of death123. Lacking all mortal courage124. How far are the hills125. Portrait126. Now I lay me127. Once having loved you128. It is nothing to cry alone129. Light of my life130. Winter, that lay on my heart131. Cold, pale, enchanted voices132. Monk’s Wood133. The thorn is in my side

134. The little island Tanick135. The peddler136. Death song of Mahmud Khan in a Persian garden137. Life, inarticulate138. Seascape139. Hunter’s wife140. Watch for me in the wild thickets141. Died young142. Cherry blossoms: Uyeno Park143. Lie down, lie down, my soul144. Fall if you will145. A brush dipped in amberLate, loose poems146. If you have never touched the earth147. Old Lady Cassidy148. Please, God, no curlers tonight

1. The churchyard of BreeSome say that these are dead,And some, but dreaming:But I can tell you noughtOf things unseeming.The bells blow down,The swallows skirl,The oak leaves in a ragged whirlRun round to rue a ragged girlAsleep above the town.

2. A black cat walks among my rosesLittle black cat among my roses,It is just the wind whispering in the tall grasses.You jump at each waving blade,You crouch softly as the rose leaves rustle,But it is only the wind, little cat.When you are old and fat and sleepyYou will only blink your green-slitted eyesAnd yawn sleepily and snapAt a spider spinning his web across the hollyhocks;No patterned shadow, no moving beam of sun,No sweep of wind will disturb your lazy contemplations.And so, little cat, just so —When I am old, and not even the laughter of the windCan stir my heart,I shall only sit sleepily before my dying fireWhile the moon swings like a Japanese lanternAnd the sun dies blood-red beyond the hill,And I shall lift my head and watchThe flickering shadows on the wallAnd see again black hair and eyes like woodland brooksAnd then …I shall count the rose petalsOne by oneAs they drop noiselessly from the blue jug on the sill,And fall asleep …

3. DesireI ask but this of life:To climb a hill on winged feetWhere tall trees stand forlorn,Up where the laughter of the windAnd night and stars are born.To glide through forests, white and still,Where sad winds softly croon,And black trees, shivering, reach their thin,Gaunt fingers to the moon.To watch at dusk the stars roam downThe meadows of the sky,And see the lonely sunset creepBeyond the moon and die.

4. American tragedy No. 1I said to you, “Oh, don’t you thinkThe moon is nice tonight?”And all you did was smile and sayIn answer, “Guess you’re right.”I said, “I’m awfully cold, aren’t you?”I shivered by your side,And all you did was move away.“I’m smothered,” you replied.And then I said, “You kiss your girlWhen shooting stars go ’crossThe sky.” But when one flashed just nowYou said, “Oh, applesauce!”Why don’t you say, “I love you, dear”?Don’t be so cold — it hurts.The evening’s almost gone, you know.“Let’s walk,” you say. Aw, nerts!

5. Upon being asked why I am lateYou say in stern reproof, dear sir,That I am late — and why?(Silence is golden, someone wrote.Oh, yeah? Where is that guy?)You frown. You’re quite upset, I see.(Aw, gosh, come outta the fog!I told him yesterday I sawA man about a dog … )Why am I late? (How can I say,“The mist was cobweb-thinThis morning as I came, and dewWas on the grass.” He’d grin!)(How can I say, “The leaves were redAlong the forest floor;I watched the sun-flecked waters danceAnd heard the wild wind roar.”)“Why are you late?” (A silly quiz!Absurd! Now, I should know?!)You say I’m very late — and why?Why, sir, my clock was slow!

6. We shall climb a windy hillWe shall climb a windy hillWhere clouds roam;We shall run down laughing,Turn again home.Passion of a bird’s cry,Ruffled, white grass;Skies as red as rogue’s blood,Bright as burnished brass …You will hold my hot hand,Lay your lips on mine,In a field of Anne’s laceAnd dewy dandelion.We shall climb a windy hill …I shall say,“Stay forever, stranger … ”Dream, pass away …

7. QuestI haunt the highways of the world to ask who knowsWhat these may be: the spell of love, the moon, a rose.I ask a boy with laughing eyes and raven hair(His are the dreams of youth — words neither here nor there)What is the moon?“A swinging lantern or a gleaming scimitar.”What is a rose?“A dream as soft and shining as a trembling star.”And what is love?“A song that never dies, strummed on a sweet guitar.”I ask a man with trembling hands and faded eyes(His is the voice of age, as cold as winter skies)What is the moon?“Sad shadow of the sun; a scepter dim and cold.”What is a rose?“Dead petals laid within a book — to have and hold.”And what is love?“A flower that blooms at dawn,and dies when day grows old.”

8. ForgottenYou smile at this pale rose laid in a book,Forgotten. Yet did you not knowThe wail of waters and the scent of springBeneath bright stars, long years ago?You laugh as, eagerly, I raise my headWhen wild winds roar and willows bend,Cry out and rush to open wide my door —You laugh. Have you forgotten, friend?

9. DisillusionCould I have back each whispered prayer,It would be nothing moreThan soft, sad voices of the windCome crying at my door.Could I recall each gay, young dream,Each triumph wildly planned,I should have nothing more than thisTo hold: dust in the hand.And if I could know love again,I should know only this(Time is so swift, and love so brief):The touch of hands, a kiss.

10. To Sonja Henie, upon seeing her for thefirst time at the III Olympic Winter GamesCome, silver bird, and let me clip your wings.Stand silent here before me; still your cries.’Tis but the touch of moonlight on old wallsIs given power to soften these hard eyes.Who gave you right to still a brazen voice?This strange and breathless silence I have heardWhen I have climbed tall hills and watched the dawn.Come, let me clip your wings, o silver bird!

11. CoquetteI kissed soft fingertips to LoveIn taunting coquetry,And when Love smiled, I gaily fledAnd bade him follow me.Love lingered at his door till IShould seek his warm embrace.I came with silken pleas and foundLove’s door slammedinmyface!

In May 1932 Mary Landon was moved by the next poem, written byDaniel Whitehead Hicky. Published in McCall’s Magazine, the poemhad been reprinted from his book, Bright Harbor, which had beenpublished earlier that year.12a. A ship for Singapore, by Daniel Whitehead HickyA ship is sailing for Singapore —O heart be swift and latch the door!My fire burns bright and the shadows fallIn yellow rhythms along the wall.My love sleeps near and her dreams are deep,Her lips a rose that has fallen asleep.The fire burns bright and the candles glow,And I must not go — I must not go!There is no peace I can know tonight,Though my love sleeps near and the fire burns bright,For stars will call from an Indian skyAnd a gold moon haunt me blowing by.The sea’s wild horses will leap and fly,Foam on their manes and wind in their eye!O heart be swift and latch the door —A ship is sailing for Singapore!

12b. Answer (to Daniel Whitehead Hicky)O candlelight, o joyous fire,O gay dream of a wild desireThat will not die — and shadows swiftThat steal across the walls and driftAlong some dim and ageless track —Come take me back, come take me back!I hate this glaucous sea’s mad surge,These reedy, noisome winds that mergeWith sodden laughter from below.Each night gay ghosts from long agoAcross this fitful moon dance black.O shadowed room, come take me back!

13. SupplicationI do not want too many gifts:A gypsy heart; contentment diesA pale, wan death at sullen dawn.Put stardust in my eyes.Let me know love, but do not giveToo great a passion; embers glowLong after restless flames depart,And I would have it so.Let me have faith, for I have spedBeyond the barren stars’ last cry;Then put upon my lips a song —I will not let it die.And give me tears like golden coinsTo spend — the piper must be paid —And, O, just one small dream to dream,For I am half afraid.

14. An old loveI thought I had forgotten, yetJust now you passed and spoke my name:My wayward heart is one mad songAnd all my body one bright flame.Pale laughter plays upon my lipsIn scorn to find my heart the same:I thought I had forgotten, yetJust now you passed and spoke my name.

15. SongThere are so many songs this world can sing:The lilt of shattered laughter in the spring;The vagabond’s flamenco ’neath a star;The canzonet of silence … o how farFrom eloquence and earth that song is born,Conceived of quiet dusk and misted morn,The plaintive requiem of trembling tearsAnd mem’ry, creeping down the dusty years.But there’s a sadder song than crumbling age:I’ve heard a wild bird singing in a cage.

16. Gypsy teaTea leaves in an amber cup:Black eyes, what is there?“Rubies for your slender throat,Diamonds for your hair.”Blue eyes, conjure up my fate;Call your specters down.“I see roses in a bowlAnd a scarlet gown.”Brown eyes: leaves of bitter tea,You have traveled far.“I can see no rubies there;I can see a star … ”

17. Two candlesI am like two candles,One a steady glowOn a teakwood table,Passionless and slow,One a twisting ghost lampOn a window sill,Where the whining rains lashAnd the wind is shrill.Slowly dies the soft flame,Smothering a sigh.Swiftly dies the ghost lamp;Laughing winds ride by.

18. A night at homeThe clock upon the mantle strikes the hour.And where are you? Have you forever gone?Night closes like the petals of a flower.The house is still; they softly slumber on.The little stars climbed up the sky last night,And you were near, so near — I thought I knew ...Tick, tock ... tick, tock ... tick, tock ... the endless flightOf time down wind-swept years ... Ah, where are you?

19. I fall in love againI have been walking this long street tonightIn search of you, and now my weary eyesAre like two broken windows where the moonWeaves restless patterns in a vain disguise.Tomorrow is as far-flung as the stars.I cannot wait — no, I must see you now,And just one smile for me — just one long smile —Will last the brooding night — oh, you know how!Somewhere you must be walking with that girl.O folly! I will search for you and meetHer watchful eyes, like two pernicious stars,A Sirius at belted Orion’s feet.’Twill only mean an arrow in my heartTo find you so, but deeper still the painOf turning homeward now with empty eyesTo wait and wonder till we meet again.

20. A sleepless nightHow long is forever?Can it be longer than tonight?I am a corpse with pennied eyes,And blanched with pale moonlight.How far is oblivion?Can it be farther than this treeWhose shadow cuts across my bedAnd tears the heart of me?And will I forget you?No, I shall not forget ... never ...Fevered and tossing, here I lie ...How long is forever?

21. Marcy trail on a rainy dayI have seen people hug their fireplace on days like this.I could tell them of open shelterswhere the winds wail an endless song,And of brooks where stones are worn smoothby a timeless murmuring,And of writhing trails where the rain beats against your faceand talks with the leaves and where the soft, rich earthgives gently beneath eager feet.I could tell them of clotted smoke risingfrom sultry, singing fires,And the scent of coffee, and dripping bacon,and fresh-cut wood.I could tell them of haughty, quiet pinesand naked rocks where birds scream.There are people who hug their fires on days like this,Who look out at gray armies of rainstalking down ceaselessly, and shiver,Who turn to their bookshelvesand read of gallant men and womenAnd think they are escaping squalid misery,But who are only escaping life.

22. American tragedy No. 2These silver birches are like ghostsThat twine slim fingers in the night’s black hair.This trembling sky, star-pricked, is likeA priceless diadem a queen might wear.And this swift river at our feetIs like an arrow screaming through the night.I dream, and wake to hear you say,“My God! How long will these mosquitoes bite?”

23. Hic jacetNow the morning sunlight creeps into my roomAnd I stir sleepily, opening one eye to look at my clock,Stretching one arm over my pillow,Lazy, contented, drugged with sleep ...Then, suddenly, I remember that you have gone awayAnd will never come back again,And suddenly I am not lazy or contentedor drugged with sleep:I am awake, and tortured, and my eyes ache.But the morning sunlight still creeps into my room —You cannot stop that, my dear.

24. Seen from a window in the town hallA man and a woman …Two women and a man …Wet trees swayingLike a ragged fan …And rain against the window,And rain in the street,And rain in the rhythmOf a drum’s thin beat.Smoke from sooty chimneys,Smoke from cigarets,Slim white spiralsOf white minarets …And wind on the housetops,And wind in the trees,A wind like the echoOf a child’s thin sneeze.Girls along the sidewalk,A baby in a sled:“And he said to me,And I said … I said … ”And a bright new auto,And a rusty Ford …Take away the rain,The gray rain, Lord.A man and a woman …Two women and a man …Wet trees swayingLike a ragged fan …And rain against the window,And rain in the street,And rain in the rhythmOf a drum’s thin beat.

25. Discourse to an Episcopal clergymanI can think of nothing moreWhen I pass your doorAnd your churlish little white dogHowlsThan a man on a daisPreaching with biasWith long black robe and flabbyJowls.A clergyman ... a white dog ...Tied on a chain —Barking at the moonAnd snapping at the rain.

26. Strategem, or, love’s labor lostI was coy and shy;You laughed at me.I was sophisticated and worldly;You frowned.I was practical and severe;You were very polite.I became brooding and cynical;You were bored.I was loving and gentle;You avoided me.And then I came to the conclusionYou didn’t love me.Oh, damn.

27. To Lenore, telling my fortuneYou, with your artful imagination, twirl my tea cupand conceive tales like vivid tapestries.I, with my artless imagination, listen in rapt wonderand nourish them for my own delectation.

28. Shades of UtopiaLet us be honest with ourselvesAnd with each other.Let us be brave and meet factWith fact;Let us relinquish dreams.Let us be charitable;Let us not gorge ourselves with ill-gotten spoils.Let us be peacefulAnd bid goodbye to our passions and our furies.Let us love one anotherAnd be decent to one another.Let us be gods.

29. The hour fliesI can hear time passing down the years,And I can hear the years dying.When I stand very straight and still,I can hear the hours laughing and weeping.I hear one little hour whining in my blue bowl on the shelf,And I hear another little hour climb up on the clockand sing, “tick, tock ... tick, tock,”And I hear another little hour patter along the floor,and stumble, and fall down, panting.I can hear the minutes beating against my door,And the hours singing in whispers,And the days laughing dull laughter,And the years crying to the stars.Why do you look at me so?You knowIt is only silence I hear.

30. The returnLight all the lamps in the windows:I shall not come home.I shall stay out here with the wind.I want to roam.Leave all the doors in the house wide:I shall pass them by.I am going up on a hillAnd watch the sky.Pile up the wood in the fireplace,And then let it flare:I am going where I can feelThe rain in my hair.Just before dawn I came creeping,Cold and wet and thin;I knocked and called, but no one came:O, let me in!

31. Over the teacupsHere riseth the smoke from the battleground:Confused voices, bloody countenances, glittering, lustful eyes ...Listen ...“I hate him. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he makesa fool of himself over her?”“What does she see in him?”“What does he see in her?”“Did you hear about Helen? Please, my dear, don’t mention itto another soul — you know, it isn’t generally known.”“But of course not. You know anything you say to mestops right here.”“And his wife is the sweetest thing! I can’t imagine himrunning around with that silly girl.”“Common little streetwalker anyway. Do you know, someoneeven saw her going up to his apartment Saturday night.”“What amuses me is she thinks she’s absolutely beautiful,and she really looks common.”“Wasn’t that a hideous dress she wore to the dance?”“Some people have no taste at all.”“Isn’t he a horrible dancer?”“She’s an abominable bridge player.”“I saw her last Thursday night and she was so plasteredthey had to ask her to leave.”“Did you really? Where? I’ll bet it was that awful dump onthe Military Road.”“Of course, now, girls, I really wouldn’t want you to repeat itfor the world. After all, I believe in live and let live ... ”“But, darling ... ”Yes, and you, and you, and you.

32. Poem without a titleMy love for you is likeThe spring trees edged with silver in the rain,And white fog lifting over a white plain,And children shouting down the shadowed street,And bells that toll at midnight, slow and sweet,And red moss crevicing a ruined mill —These things I love the best, and always will —And winds that pound at dusk upon my door —O, say this softly, Mary, softly, youHave heard these words before!

33. MarisWhat’s behind a mask?Let me look ...Nothing! Nothing there at all —Only ragged edges where the mask fits on,Like the cover of a bookWith the pages gone.

34. Justice CourtFrom up on the dais the Justice stares down,Digesting his dinner with a practiced frown.Out in the courtroom the old lawyer stands,Fire in his eyes and glasses in his hands.The young attorney sweats and strives to be heard,And his thin voice twitters like a frightened bird.Over in the corner the constable snoresIn cocked hat and shining badge — and guards the doors.The defendant looks solemn and blows his nose.The witnesses fidget in their Sunday clothes.The wheel of justice turns with a creaking sigh;Out in the courtyard a truck lumbers by.

35. Cacoethes scribendiLet the scientists sputter and gamble and guess,Let the clergymen preach and the christians transgress,Let the married ones quarrel and lovers caress —I’m youngAnd I’ve got a new dress!Let ’em talk of Depression and let it depress,Let the government tax and excise and assess,Let the bridge players bid and renege and finesse —I’m youngAnd I’ve got a new dress!Let the government get in a hell of a mess,Let it rain, let it snow — I don’t care, I confess,If it’s winter or summer in Denmark or Hesse,’Cause I’m youngAnd I’ve got a new dress!I know it’s important for tailors to press,And quite as important for bishops to bless,And the world is the same as it’s always been — yes!But I’m youngAn’ I’ve got a new dress!

36. Lake Placid Club chimesCome down, twilight,The dream is done.Tired faces turn homeward,And one pale starTwines itself in a tamarack tree.The sun shakes his tawny maneOver a mountainAnd gallops away to the west.Come down, twilight,Stroke my tired head.Day is over,Toil is over,And the dream is done.Now weave another dream,More beautiful,Jeweled stars and night winds;Black water with its hungry mouthPressed to old tree trunks;Soft wings and whispers ...Come home, say the chimes,And the lamps in the housesSit gloomily on their haunches.Stay, stay! whisper the breezes,And run away, laughing,To catch a cloud of smoke peering over the topOf a dusty twilight chimney.Come home, say the chimes,And stay, stay! whisper the breezes,And the pain in my heart throbsAnd will not be still.

The houses squat hungrily along the dim streetsAnd open their narrow mouths.Soon they will belch forth hollow noisesLike the anguished wail of a trombone,Like the crash of cymbals,Like the thin beat of drums.Swoop down, twilight,On the dream that is done.Carry it awayOver the hills,Away and away.

37. GoodbyeI’ve said goodbyeOn more romantic nights than this.Do you think IWill sadly treasure your last kiss?(Why, yes, of course; I have before,But that was months ago and more.)I’ve said farewellOn windy hills where stars were bright,And silence fellLike one long cry across the night.(So, please, my dear, don’t be dramatic —Our parting is too emblematic!)And I have knownHow sadly phantoms cry at dawnAnd pale ghosts moanWhen night is dead and love is gone.(O silly fool! A modern maidIs strong and brave and unafraid.)Oh, yes,I’ve said goodbyeOn more romantic nights than this!I shall not sigh,I shall not treasure your last kiss,Not though our last, bright hour is dying.Goodbye, my dear. (Good God! I’m crying!)

38. No answerRing, telephone, ring.There is no one here,Only me, a shadow,Only me, a dream.Ring, telephone, ring.I am not home tonight.Here lies dream dust,The cadaver of joy,But I have gone away.Ring ... ring ...The silence shall answer you.Someone waiting there ...No answer ... ring again!Silence shall answer you ...Silence ... and a silent dark ...Who was it?

39. EpitaphSay that I loved old hills and running wind,Magnolia trees beneath the cold starlight,Earth steeped in brooding symphonies of dark,Birds winging upward in an ecstasy of flight.Say that I loved the spring and cool woodsmoke,The scented rain and misted moons in May,Warm clover lying in the young spring grass,Remote church bells in vespers at the close of day.Say that I loved all these: the wind and rain,The clarion call of earth and lilac trees,Brown chestnuts roasting on a winter hearth,The black of night, white snow, and wistful, whining seas.Say that I loved all these beyond the grave —They shall not die. Can stars and spring meet death?Say not I loved you, too — ’tis but a dreamThat perished with my heart, that vanished with my breath.

40. To a man upon hearing him suck his teeth for the 14th timeSir,What mad, unconquerable, demoniacal fury in your soulDrives you to this relentless, terrifying occupation?It seems a thousand years that I have clutched this chair,Benumbed, and taunted by some strange hallucination.Each haunting, terror-stricken moment of my lifeReturns, like some weird cavalcade of horsemen riding by,And in my palsied brain I hear the deafening roarOf great winds raging through a sunless sky.The fires of hell are tearing through this room;I feel their scorching tongues and heated breath.A thousand gory demons shriek and moan,And lips befouled with scarlet blood shriek, “Death!”I hear the rush of rotten waters passing throughThe quivering earth down to the bowels beneath,And muttered, mutilated words fall from my lips:“Oh, God, sir,Please don’t suck your teeth!”

41. Ennui, produced by inconsistencies of the weatherLife, what do you want with me?I am disgusted with the barbaric, bestial qualitiesin your men and women.I am annoyed by the insulting, petty triflesof my colorless existence.I am bored by the monotonous, passionless assemblanceof your seasons.I am depressed by your glaring sunlight,and your moonlight weaves a madness within methat too soon passes.Your scenery is terrifying in its strangeness and immobility.Your promises are only dreams,and your dreams are too-stark realities.Life, what do you want with me?Leave me; I have neither need nor desire for your company.Take your hand from my shoulder; it is heavy,and your touch is nauseating.You won’t leave? How permanent and maddening are friendswho refuse to terminate a conversationwhen it has become tedious and exhausted!

42. OrchestraWe are dancing together again …Why are we still?Why do we cling like cloudsOn a tall hill?Why do we drift down this narrow roomLike a song that is ending —Lovely and sad and lonely,The drums and the violins blending?Listen …Do you rememberSpring and wind and the scent of rain,And the sound of a panting, tortured tree,And the cry of our hearts’ new painPlayed on the strings of ecstasy?We strayed in the dream of a reckless hourTo the hill beyond the townWhere the grasses lay in the fragrant dewAnd night and the stars came down …Madness and swift enchantment …Our fingers brushing the sky,We did not care nor rememberWe would die as lovers die,Nor hear the crash of our trembling godsAs they shattered like glass and fell,Nor the sound of our swift and sweet ascentTo heaven — and back to hell —Nor hear the world in its falling,Soundless as soundless snow,And swifter than fleeing birdsIn the whisper of rain — but, no,We were alone and shiningUnder the bloodless sky,And the wild wind came and tore at our throatsIn a strange and answering cry.Where is our lost and broken laughter?What comes after? What comes after?

We are dancing together againIn the room where our love lies dying,And even above the saxophone’s wailI hear it crying.

43. Spring fantasyAnd what if you return some April afternoon(Afternoon gray and moist with unshed tears)And stand before me on some windless hill,Smiling your careless smiles that sooth my restless fears,And reach your trembling hand to break a brittle twig(You have done this before) from some lone tree,And, standing so, with sunlight in your hair,Twist it with nervous hands, the while you look at me.And what if — wordless gesture — you shouldfold your hands,And move your lips in silent litany …Return, O deathless dream — return, O love …(Can one heap earth, in spring, upon a memory?)And what if, standing there, you sigh and voice your griefAt having left me that October nightWhen tang of fruit and frost was in the air,And your last footsteps turned from me in hollow flight?And what if pleading, gentle words fall from your lips,Like cool spring water dripping on a stone,Sweet words and tender, dripping, crystal-clear,Designed to stir the blood of one so long alone?And what if you, at last, not having heard from meA swift, forgiving word should, in despairSeek to enclose me in your hungry arms?And what if I should turn away and never care …And never care?

44. MiserI saved my tears like golden coinsAnd spent my laughter wantonlyAnd flung away my bright-winged hours,My carefree love — the heart of me.Mad dreams I dreamed and let them go —Along lost highways of the skyThey drift in huddled company —Gay songs I sang, and let them die.Now in my lonely room I keepThis box of coins — a worthless thing.I count the teardrops over, one by one,And listen to theirhollowcling.

45. Hunger (a short story)You threw me little crumbs of hopeOn which my hungry heart I fed.You knew I starved, and yet you left —And took your loaf of bread.

46. On things Oscar WildeThis is wisdom:To welcome lifeWith trumpet blastAnd shriek of fife;To bid farewellAnd let death comeWith a last outcryOn a battered drum;To make no promiseAnd keep no trust;To let all mem’rySink to dust;To shun all truthAnd believe all liesAnd honor fools.(Fools are so wise!)To love with a loveAs light as snow,And when love’s doneTo laugh — and go.

47. Passing strangerSpeak, you the enchanted …In the shadowed,Sinuous contours of your faceLurks the moment memorable.Here there is time and spaceFor puny platitudesAnd little irrelevancies.Moment immortal — deathless word — a dream —I would ask nothing more of you than these,And were your dreamA changeling of the mind,A tattered square of memoryFrom some chance mood (you would be kind),A drunken bagatelle; were you to laugh,And I to twist a thread of tune,What would you care,And what should I? Too soonWe would fall silent,Hang our heads and passAs harlots pass, oblique and sly,And suddenly turn and look,And laugh,And cry.

48. Mise en sceneWhen we two die, there’ll be no wind or rain;Only the poignant peace that follows pain.Then we shall have forgotten bright desire,Hushed all the bitter laughter, quenched the fire,Slain all the smoldering moments of regret —We shall be old, we two who hunger yet.We shall forget.Scornfully, hand in hand, we’ll lie and wait;We’ll watch the stars climb up the pasture gate,And hear their startled cries, far, faint and shrillWhen slinking shadows follow up the hill …We two, and pallid moonlight flowing by …We shall be silent, knowing that we die,Nor wonder why.They’ll find us underneath a hawthorn tree(Searching the hills and meadows anxiously),Serenely pale, and speechless, and content.How they will cry their dull astonishmentTo find us lying drunk with silence there.Remembering our laughter, they will stare.We shall not care.

49. The sophisticatesSoftly at first,The gentle patterOf your conversationComes to my earsLike cool, winding rain.Then,As with rising wind,Howling raindropsBeat on my brow —Bitter as death,More ceaseless than pain.

50. Thought at duskOnce when I crossed the fields at the day’s red end,Down where the brook runs cold and the willows bend,I stopped at a thought that is old as the worldAnd as bright with fear:When I am gone,This small, six-pointed flower will still be here.

51. Lines for winterFar in the west I heard the frightened cryOf lone lost birds, like arrows in the sky,And heard the ring of steel and whetted woodDeep in the somber darkness where I stood,Thin voices calling in the hemlock tree,Calling and calling — clear and cold — to me.But I went by dreaming of summer rainAnd apple blossoms bursting in bright pain,Dreaming of spring returning — and awokeTo see the snow sweep down the field like smoke;And with its bitter breath upon my mouth,I listened to the north wind blowing south.

52. Lines to Omar KhayyamOmar … I know not where you are;I know this only: death is far,And we hear not from those who went —But do they let you stitch a tent?And are there books of verses there?And, Omar, girls with perfumed hair?Do round, ripe grapes droop on the vine?And do they let you drink red wine?

53. Negro dancerWiggle your thighs, black girl.Strut your stuff to the rhythm ofclapping hands and the pagan drums.Swing your hips and roll your eyes, black girl …Give it to ’em! Give it to ’em!Your face, a black flower in astinking hot-house lined with glass.Your body, a reed bending in the slime of rotten waters …Give it to ’em! Give it to ’em!What are we, o long sob of strings, who sing ourshattered songs in a temple of mad black gods?What are we, o wild beat of drums, who laughour broken laughters in a riot of smoking suns?What are we?

54. An open letter to Ogden NashDear Mr. Nash: I do not want to seem pugnacious,downright whimsical or irascible,But take this long-awaited opportunity to sayI think your verse is only passable.In fact, I think I’ll go just three steps more and sayyour constant and annoying iterationIs nothing less than insult to the human race (so called) and I,for one, demand obliteration.The eternal pot, pother and dirty business offollowing through a sentence to its finisHas given men I know (honest and upright taxpayers —not Democrats) sinus.Another read your stuff and took to muttering andgibberish incoherence,And having, for the sake of self-respect and pride,read to the end with pious perseverance,Now lies in Woodlawn Cemetery, his beautiful andpromising young life forever lost, and on the monu-Ment is this inscription: “Here lies one whofollowed through.” Shame on you!Now look here, Mr. Nash, if you were half a man asKing Prajadhipok of Siam,You’d stick to sonnets (fourteen lines). If, as, and when you do,you’ll be a better man than I am.

55. Epitaph(After Keats, who desired that on his tomb should be inscribed:“Here lieth one whose name was writ on water.”)Here lieth one whose name was writ on windInconstant as a dream — swift as the painOf spring and young ripe blossoms on the vine.Here lieth one whose name was writ on rainSoft as the touch of wings against a star,Brief as the breath of may flies — silver swordsThat gently sting and leave no wound or scar.Here lieth one whose fate was writ on flame:The rain and wind have nibbled at her name.

56. The song I singThis is the song I sing:Love and laughter and sorrow;Wanton and wine tonight,Tears on the bleak tomorrow.These are the words I say,Soft in the morning sun:Sorrow and laughter and loveTill song and singing are done.This is the dream I dream:Glory and gladness and grief.This is the thread of the loom;This is the shape of the leaf.This is the dawn and the duskOf man and his little hour:Moonlight and madness and mirth,Sunlight and firelight and flower.What though the singer must passAnd sorrow must bind his breath?This is the song I sing …Laughter … and love … and death.

57. Will of Lucy Ann Walker, 1853I give to my daughter,Sarah M. Thew,My old home farmIn Lot 52.(Honeysuckle, thorn roseAnd wild plum trees;Ripe corn and white grapeAnd velvet bees.)All of that parcelIn Lot 51I hereby bequeathTo Oliver, my son,Starting in the westBy the John Brook Bridge.(Gold-brown beech leaves,Moonlight on the ridge.)Thence along the riverAs it winds and turns(Sweet wet thymeAnd green lace ferns)Thence to an apple tree,The Great Lot line(White wan willows,Blossoms red as wine)Thence to a cedar postBeside the pasture rail(Rich deep furrowsAnd warm wind’s wail)Thence to a cedar stumpDown by the mill(Sunlight on the waterShadows on the hill).

And unto my nephew,One Hezekiah Rand,I give all that parcelAnd lot of landThat young Briand HoffmanFormerly leased.Will of Lucy Walker,Now deceased.

58. Prayer for springSpring is such a little timeBefore white frost:Teach me to care, and countNo moment lost.Love is such a little whileAnd life so long:Teach me to smile, and singA wild sweet song.Life is such a fleeting dreamBefore we die:Teach me to laugh, and love,And say goodbye.

59. Song of a sailor (written in collaboration with Marjorie)I met an old woman who never saw the sea;She was gaunt, and she was gnarled as a cypress tree —Old mother, old mother, never saw the sea,Never saw the brindled sky bend to kiss the brine,Never tasted the gold spume on her lips like wine,Never saw the dolphins leap … leap … leap …Never saw the tall ships plunging in the deep,Never heard the white gulls crying at her door,Old mother, old mother, 80 years and more.I took old woman away to the deep,Down, down, down, where the tired ships sleep —Old ships, tired ships, drifting on the deep.She wept when we wandered in the cold sea caves,She cursed at the champing of the wild white waves,She shivered and she shrieked at a brown sand duneDown where the fanged cliffs gnaw the mellow moon.She has gone to the forest; she has fled from the sea;She is old, she is sad, she is blind with memory —Old mother, old mother, never saw the sea.

60. A jingleCows in the yellow corn,Cows in the red clover,What will you do — will you do,Now that summer is over?Birds in the brindled sky,Birds in the burning sun,How can you sing — can you sing,Now that the summer is done?Heart in the listening breast,You who are old and wise,What can you say — can you say,Now that your lover dies?

61. DesolationI shall go out in the sun and the wind and the dryClean air, where the trees are naked and strange and the skyIs a burnished copper, beaten and bronzed and old;I shall walk in the white wind, under the blossoming gold.I shall not weep nor robe and garland my grief,Though the grass is matted and blown, though not one leafTroubles the thick silence; gestured in sorrow,I shall stand like a slim tree, turned to tomorrow.I shall go out in the wind and the sun and the cool drawn air,And not weep, and not cry out, and not care.

62. Voices… And then I heard them singing on the hillside.I listened, and I heard my lost loves say:Sorrow in a smile and sorrow in the spring,Long ago, long ago and far away.O their song was sad, and their song was sweet,And O, it was a song I would forget!But now they sing no more upon the hillside.Long ago … long ago! I hear them yet.

63. Spring evening(Rachmaninoff’s Prelude, heard through an open window)Was it for this, O hungry heart, that you sealed your lips?Was it for this, O wanton mind, that you fled the waysOf the singing spring, the lane’s bright end,The frantic, feline nights, the daggered days?Was it for this moment, naked … sweet …Was it for this you wept, cried out in pain,Knowing that you would wander down this way,And hear such music as you shall not hear again?

64. Ballad of a bird who flew freeThe parakeet’s flown from his painted cage,Wanton and wild he is winging;We’ve whistled and clacked, and frantically quacked …Keet, keet, keet he is singing!The parakeet’s perched in the crab-apple tree,Preening and purring and prowling;We climbed up a ladder, and now we are sadder …Keet, keet, keet he is howling!Parakeet, parakeet, fly back down,Feathers sea-green and eye beetle-brown;There’s rain on the roof and wind in the west,And a bowl full of parrot-seed deep in your nest.Your cage is so clean and your cage is so cool …You frantic, you antic, you old feathered fool!The parakeet’s down in the maple grove,And there he is fussing and fretting;There’s rain in the sky, and wind blowing by,And oh, but he’ll get a good wetting!Parakeet, parakeet, fly back down —The news of your flight has gone through the town;They’ve come with a brickbat, a butterfly net,And if they don’t catch you, you’ll surely get wet;You’ve crumbs in your cage, and lettuce and carrot …You impudent, imprudent, silly old parrot!The parakeet’s flown away to the trees,Wanton and wild he is flying;We’re all in a rage, we’ve shut up his cage …Keet, keet, keet, he is crying!

65. Frogs sang in the morningThe frogs sang in the morning,Stars scattered on the grass,The yellow fog slipped by me —I stopped to let her pass.And all the trees were islands,And all the dunes were sky,When frogs sang in the morningAnd yellow fog slipped by.

66. To a certain young man who requestedme to write a poem about himWhat can you take from me — my dreams?But I have seen the rainRun weeping down the mirrored streets, and often I have lainOn high clear downs at duskand watched the plovers wheeling by,And I have loved all quiet things, and sun, and wind, and sky;And I have seen the dark night fall along a golden stream,And I have sung a deathless songand dreamed a deathless dream.What can you take from me — my love? My love is for a day,And all your words and all your smilesare gone long years awayWhen twilight folds her quiet hands and shuts her tired eyes,When dawn climbs up an April hilland stares in sweet surprise;And all your promises are pale and all your pleadings muteWhen spring rain pipes along the grass like laughter of a lute.What can you take from me — my peace?It lies beneath my lipsAnd in the hollows of my heart and on my fingertips;And no words that you say to me and none of lover’s sighsCan scatter silence in the breast or gladness in the eyes,Can banish beauty from the brain and wisdom from the mind —For wisdom has a thousand eyes, and love, they say, is blind.I’ll wake to find you gone one day when gypsy fiddles start,Yet I should let your sad eyes in and feed your hungry heart;You’ll leave me when the young spring comeswith flowers in her hair,Yet I shall share my dreams with you and harbor your despair.What can you take from me — my grief?My loneliness, my shame?What can you take from me — myself?My memories … my name?

67. WarningLove the lost lane,A tale once told,High laughter inA room grown cold,Lilacs and youthAnd dying eyes,The silence ofA heart grown wise.Love the cruel wordIn the last hour,Moonshadows onA closed flower,Young girls who weepOn a green hill,Things desolate,Things strange and still.Love the dark surfOn the wild shore,A grieving voiceAt a barred door,Slow music byA darkened stair,The secret smilesThat old men wear.Love the lost laneAnd dying eyes,You who are lonely,Proud and wise.Love the sad songThe lost bird sings;The lonely heartNeeds lonely things.

68. DelusionIf you can be sure you love me,You can be sure that a songIs not sweet nor a singer glad,And life is not long.You can be sure you will not die,That there is never an end,No grief that a cool hand cannot healNor a kind word amend.If you can be sure you love me,You can be sure that springWill not pass nor a bright leaf fade —Sure of anything.Sure that a year can bring no change,And old friends cannot part,Sure that a young lad will not weepWhen fiddles start.You can be sure that a gallant smileAnd a lost heart never meet,And old men cannot hear the treadOf swift enchanted feet.You can be sure a thought is dustAnd a young voice tired and slow …If you can be sure you love me …Why do you look at me so?

69. Dream journeyOh, I shall go to Singapore, beyond the China Sea,And down the Rhine to Dusseldorf and up the dunes to Dee.I’ll sail a golden galleon along the Spanish Main(Oh, I shall sail to Singapore, to Dusseldorf, to Spain!)And I shall buy a temple bell and burnished bamboo reeds,And I shall buy three dusky pearls like pomegranate seeds,A saffron-colored citron and spice in Lantern Lane,A swinging lamp in Samarkand, a velvet coat in Spain.Oh, I shall go to Port-de-Paix along the Windward WayAnd down the coast to Rio and on to Nossi-Be.I’ll dream on starlit balconies and swim in turquoise seas;I’ll ride a snow-white elephant and climb palmetto trees;And I shall buy Satsuma ware and sandalwood and lace,A crimson gown in Martinique and claret wine in Thrace,A Persian rug in Baghdad and teakwood in Japan,A Burmese god, a coral ring, a jug, a lacquered fan.I’ll sail down to Christobal, I’ll journey to Cathay,To Mexico, to Barbados, and on to Mandalay.I’ll take a camel caravan beneath the desert skiesTo turbaned Turks with jeweled hands and coffee-coloredeyes.I’ll buy a blood-red carbuncle, a silver samovar;I’ll buy a string of milky jade as white as moonstones are,And lavender in London, and black nuts in Brazil,An ermine fur, a Dresden doll, a purple peacock quill.Oh, I have dreamed for many days and many moonless nightsOf fishing smacks at Cornwall and frost-blue northern lights,Of crooked streets of Babylon and sunset over Tyre,Of cherry bloom and arabesque and pearl and opal fire,So I shall sail the seven seas in flying clipper shipsWith jacinth on my fingers and laughter on my lips.

70. Old man on a porchBecause he was old, they thought he would rememberNothing, the years long gone or vanished faces,And so they carried him out to the porch at duskWrapped in a tattered shawl, and talked of placesAnd names that his feeble mind would not confine:Wheat waist-high in the fields in the rich, fat years,Birds in the white alders down by the ruined mill —Things that could stop his lean, dry throat with tears.Because he was old, they thought he had forgottenThe night she died, calling him over and over;Wagons churning the yellow dust when they took her away;Cowslips and ox-eyed daisies and cloverWild in the pasture; brown sap flowing and new-mown hay —All that he loved so well they thoughthe would not remember:Dry, sharp days in the spring, boyhood and youth,Crashing logs on the lone, bleak hills in November,Laughter of men at the table; cakes and cider;Ripe green corn that grew to a man’s shoulder;The fire that swept the high, brown slopes of the town;Strawberry time; the blackened shaft of the boulderHe climbed as a boy; fish in the cold west brook;Apple harvest and acrid autumn smoke.They put him out on the porch to sleep while they talked,And carried him up to his cool, dark room when he woke.Because he was old, they thought he could not hearTheir talk of the old livery; Mrs. Stokes; the rideTo the valley forge when his son came home from Maine;How many months would pass before he died.They thought he was old or that he had forgottenOr could not hear the timeworn words they said.Wrapped in a tattered shawl, he closed his eyesAnd clasped his quiet hands and bowed his head.

71. Farewell, and give applauseLove is a dark roomBeyond a bolted door:Farewell, and come no more.Clasp hands with the hour,Hunt out the swift year:Farewell, and shed no tear.Begin where the end came,Let there be no pause:Farewell, and give applause.

72. Words for a songOver the hills and far awayAnd years and years gone by,You were a piper’s whistling sonAnd a wild goose girl was I.East of the sun, west of the stars,And where I cannot say,Life was an olden, golden songThat sang the years away.One penny, two penny, three had I,A cloak and a witch’s spell,Apples of gold and a song you had,The moon and a wishing well,A white swan’s egg and a silver shoe,A crooked staff and a tune(Who would long for Aladdin’s lampWith a wishing well and the moon?).East of the sun, west of the stars,And where I cannot say,Over the hills, over the hills,Far and far away.

73. EnchantedWhere are you, son? It was his mother callingOver the pasture rim. He made no sound.He might have been dead — only the moon knew,Watching between two hills, yellow and round.Now it had come, what he had always known —It was the end; he would never go back;She might call and call, but he would be lostIn a rain of stars, in a night hollow and black.Where are you, son? It was my voice callingOut of the past. Nothing was real but thatHe crouched there, secret and enchanted,His sharp nose burrowing the earth, his flatChild’s face wet with the mist and the loam.He might have been dead. The moon saw onlyA wide dark field and a small boy lyingClose to the warm earth, moon-bewitched and lonely.

74. Night wakingNight and swift waking …Stupid, no one’s there!It is the wind that walksOn the listening stair.Night and a soft calling …Close your eyes again!It is the wind that criesTo the faithless rain.

75. The lost loverOnly one song I sing:Over and overThe sorrowing wordsOf the lost lover.Will you not listen,Will you not wait,If I must sing allMy love and hate?If I must sing allMy joy and grief,Will you not listen?The song is brief!A smile and a tear,And then it is over,The one wild songOf the lost lover.

76. Ten-Fork River (a river chantey)Ten-Fork RiverRuns through the town,Rusty, musty,Yellow and brown;Silt in the spring,Mire in the fall,Bitter as bilgeAnd sour as gall.They found Sire SharneyBuried in a sack;(Ten-Fork RiverNever turned back).Swung John JinksFrom a dead prune tree;(Ten-Fork RiverDrivelled to the sea).The old men die,The young men marry —Never see oldFork River tarry;Never see oldFork River stayFor a tale or a tuneOr Election Day.Bitter as bilgeAnd sour as gall,Silt in the spring,Mire in the fall,Rusty, musty,Yellow and brown,Ten-Fork RiverRuns through the town.

77. RendezvousHouse on a dark mountain,Blue beech tree and gate —Here on a summer morningI’d lay me down and wait,Here on a summer eveningWhen drowsy crickets hum,I’d light the tallow candlesAnd wait for him to come,And I would lay the hearth fireWith cedar bark and pine,And spread the snowy linenWith honey-bread and wine.Now autumn hills are goldenAnd wild the west winds blow;My love is long in comingAnd I must rise and go.House on a dark mountain,Blue beech tree and gate —I will arise and go now.Wait.

78. Evening in AprilPatter of raindrops on the gabled roof,Click of the naked boughs,Sorrow of the spring:Heart, you must be a poor and patient thingTo feed on these.What have they to give you,These irrelevancies?TomorrowThe swollen river will leapAt the skeleton bridge;Wild ginger run over the rain-wet ridge;The root will be green in the dust.Yet they will never find you any courageTo say what you must.

79. Song of the vagabondI’ll take the high ways that hie to the blue hillsAnd white hills, whiter than a wild goose feather;I’ll take the wild roads that wind through the woodlands,I’ll take the high ways in warm spring weather!Up hill and down dale,A song on my mouth,I’ll take the wild roadsThat wind to the south!I’ll take the low ways that run to the old towns,Little lanes and lost lanes when the north winds blow;I’ll take the low ways that lead to hedgerowsWhen snow flies and it’s home a man must go.Up hill and down dale,The road I love best,The wild road, the white roadThat winds to the west!

80. So still the silver maples areSo still the silver maples are,And down the moon the hills lie far;A night to lightly run, and keepThe foolish fancies locked in sleep.Now here across the moors I flyTill midnight sends me home to lieAnd whisper names of younger yearsWhen foolish fancies loosed my tears.

81. Barbary CoastBarbary Coast! When I was young,The words were honey on my tongue,And sweet with solemn mysteriesOf plundered ships and pillaged seas.Ah, these were the names I loved to hear:The silver sound of buccaneer,And pirate’s loot and louis d’or,Sand-hidden on a coral shore.And I remember, with a smile,The golden sound of Treasure Isle,The hollow funereal tonesOf bloody boots and Billy Bones.Barbary Coast! But I am old,And hardened in a sterner mold.Oh, now I am no longer young,The words are honey on my tongue!

82. Hill songWhere is my lover gone?Where you will never go,Long on the sighing deep,Silver and slow.How shall I follow there?Hill feet can never flyWest to GalapagosEastward to Skye.When may he come again?Oh, will you never learnLads who sail out to seaNever return?

83. VigilanteIf, one day, in those star-bright solitudesBeyond Aldebaran, on moon-white sea,I find you once again and touch your hand(If there be any immortality);Oh, if I love you less than I do now,And silence keep, and hold you lightly then:Think me not dead, but mindful of the painI knew of love in this far world of men.

84. Dark hills, northwardDark hills, northward,Since I must leave you for a little time,To jostle and be jostled in the land-locked city,To dine in pavilioned restaurantsand braid my hair for the opera,To rustle at first nights, and think it such a pityThat oak leaves in the park do not turn gold at allBut just wrinkle and grow sad and sadly fall,Dark hills, northward, since I must go,Be constant, be brave, be slowTo sorrow, loosed above your throat:Be dreaming, blue … remoteAs now you lie.(Lips, lips, why do you thus address Eternity?)

85. HegiraIf I should ever escape this vigilant shellAnd shed the prudent flesh and cloistered bone,Mute and indignant in its barren cellThe monkhood mind would meditate alone —Enraged to find the restless spirit flownEyeless and mindless, innocent and free,And footloose in a fool’s eternity.

86. Since I must sing of sorrow …Since I must sing of solitude and sorrow,Be cautious,Be over-wary of my rhyme.There is something in me stony and harsh and bitterThat would wear itself out for your pity,In time.“Beauty’s enough and life is over-long.”Have you not heard me say it? It is as oldAs the day long gone we stood in the stubbled pasture,With snow flying and brook crying over pebblesAnd night blowing cold.“I would I were desolate, shard on crystal lime.”That was the day the gackles southward flew,That was the hour and the timeThe catboat nudged the bleak and barren shore,And I did not want to go back to the town again,I did not want to return any more, any more.Itinerant rhyme, shuttle and weave of the loom;Over I spin it … I have marked no roomFor triumph, for love in harvest,I shall never saddle content.It is better and more beautiful to beDesolate, to wander solitary,To beBroken and spent.Since I must sing of the stripped bough,The leaf under snow,Pin your stubborn pride to your sleeveAnd go.

87. BuglesWe steered the sluice and tied the swaying boatTo thin moon palings shaved from the moon’s pale throat.“Listen … ” he said, though to listen was to hearThe fathomless silence hushing the fallow mere.Then it was that we heard the cry of the packNosing the frosty earth with legs arched backAnd tails cupped over the dark,Beautiful and belligerent, like someone dying,And “Hark,” he said … and “Hark … ”Farther and faster, fainter and faster, it ranOver the halted highlands, under the spanOf maples etching the pawed and moon-ridged trail.(Where have I heard those bugles, the wailOf bugles … When shall I awake?)The night swooned down the lake.“Listen again,” he said, though to listen was to hearThe fathomless silence hushing the fallow mere.

88. When years have carven memory of this dayWhen years have carven memory of this dayInto imperishable stone, and chilled our griefAs the slow heel print cast in immutable clay,As diamond penciled on glass, as frost etched on the leaf —What worn-out words shall you find strength to sayThat, suddenly stricken dumb, you never saidOn the high moors, the tumbled downs of Bree,Lest their harsh wisdom and their sorrow strike us dead?

89. MasqueradeSongs, be quick, hide!Here is one who knows …He will core your eyes out,Tramp on your toes.See his hot eye!Your slow feet fail you …With a flick of his whipHe will flail you.With his sabre teethHe will make you mince;He will twist your thumbs roundTo watch you wince.Run, my songs, run,Innocent and free!When he comes looking, he’llFind only me.

90. WeatherwiseI should find some meaning in this moment,According to the poet:Yet if a truth has earthed itself for me,I do not know it.What is your warning, bony leafless tree?Finger on mouth, I do not strain to hear;You are no symbol of the season, onlyA season yourself, a cycle of the year.And you, wild duck, propelling autumn skies,With wide-webbed feet — fold back the airAnd southward pass, and still, for I am weatherwise.Bird-like am I and know a somber meaningIn bony tree on blackened moor upleaning,And I was taught to know that summer’s doneWhen leaves drop down and bluer shadows run.Pity me, then, because I am a poetAnd if there be a dark omen, not know it.

91. Letter to KoreaAgain it is autumn.The blue squills are faded. TheAsters are burned out.The black beans of the red tiger liliesAre floating on the little pool in the garden.The beechnuts are choking the rainspout,The leaves are forever crying.Nothing has changed.At evening the purple grackles blow in the catalpas,I have gone down to the marsh to pick the cattailsand the bittersweetFor the Chinese bowl.Autumn is early this year, everythingIs dying.Up and down, up and down, ceaselesslyUp and down the patter of cinnamon-brown leaves,The rain of beechnuts on the yellow-brown pavement,The man comes crying, “Old rags and papers,old rags and papersOld rags … ”I seldom go to the city any more, I seldom hearThe stammer of bells, the tolling of bells,The tremor of bells like a pulse beat at eveningin the dark tower.Cross-legged by the fire at night,I turn the pages of your letters;They crackle like old parchment …Castrogiovanni, Ankara, Mandalay …Sometimes …The shutters need mending;There is a mouse in the wall.

92. Opalescent GorgeSlowly, studiously, with hushed labor, he must have carvedWith chisel and hammer his name on the granite bolder;Swaying between the ledge and the swinging bridge,half-starvedWhen dusk reeled down the gorge and nudged his shoulder.Slowly he must have groped and shambled and comeBack to the thread of flume in the black ravine,Feinting at creviced gorse with nerveless, numbFingers, and stumping his stiff legs on the swaying pine.Not for the bleached faggots would he have fumbled,Not for the pack cached in the rocking boat:But unbelieving and monstrous-eyed, he saw and mumbledIt over and over, pride beating a pulse in his lean throat.Surely he must have waited the moon, wedged in the cleft,Tracing the legend scooped from the granite hill;Surely the humming darkness hedged him ’round: Bereft,Unnamed, unknown, how motionless, how still.

93. I shall go backI shall go back one day to the curving shoreAnd wonder why I cannot resent you any more;Why it is that I cannot restoreThe hate in my breast.Even my words are faded as an old tune,But whatever they were, they were best.There it was that you stood, bewildered.There stood I.There are the dunes, and the curving beach,And the chestnut-colored sky.

94. Night running brookMy father’s house was back in the bogland,Hard by a brook that sprang from a dune;All night long it chinked like a tymbal,Shivered like fiddle strings all out of tune.My father’s house was near to the woodland;I used to crawl there and gabble with the wind;Never heard any song half as sad asSound of the beaver leaves, slivered and thinned.Folks used to say I was just as wild asAny young colt that bolts at the bars;I never asked for anything else butMoorland and bog and a spoonful of stars.Any man harks to the hum of a brown beck,Any man sleeps in a lonesome glen,Never shall he bed with a gammer’s daughter,Never shall he step with the sons of men.

95. Desert flowerSorrow again: and who’s to careIf I lie down or rise to bear?Singing again: and who’s to hearThe words that tremble in my ear?I know many an artful trickTo mend the lamp and trim the wick,But who’s to please and who’s to faceWhen I wear living with a grace?The dingo crying in my throat,The small limbs aching in my coat,The drums that dwindle in my blood,The crawling tide, the rising flood,The armored fear, the clarion crow,The retching pride — and who’s to know?There are so many wily waysTo dress my soul, so many daysTo plumb and prune and plan and plot.God knows for what.God knows for what.

96. If to the last hillIf to the last hill I must clamber eager,So I shall be willing at the end of my span.Life at the best is only less than meager,Stemmed breath and stalled blood and curried bone of man.I shall go eager though my back be broken;I shall be merry with words dried on my tongue.If to be old is to own a sorry token,’Tis better, and no worse, than to worry and be young.

97. Here lies Jennifer DownsLife was too hard with me:All that it gave meWas trouble to carryAnd sorrow to lave me,A wife with a lover,A daughter who tried me,A son who turned roverAnd lies not beside me.Trouble’s above me:Now under the sodThe grave diggers shove me.I thank thee, God.

98. Now farewell, BreeNow farewell, Bree, for I must riseAnd write my sorrow on the skiesAnd quicken the reluctant paceMy shoes mark on the earth’s pied faceSo men may call me wise.Now fare thee well, and I shall keepIn townships wide and valleys deepThe silence of your fallow hillsTill time runs down the glass and willsTo lay me fast asleep.

99. EscapeWhere are you bound, young man, with the April morning?The town needs none of your kindand the world wants none of your ilk.Oh, you will be coming back, I fear,ere the clout needs mending,And you will be trudging home ere the baize is silk.You can travel from shore to shoreand they’ll shape and mold youLike earth to an earthen crock when the clay marl dries.Oh, I fear you’ll be coming back in a space, young soldier,In a black frock coat, and pennies on your eyes.

100. Wear you a crown to die forWear you a crown to die for, man, then die.Death is the land to bear away the willow;Sorry are they who under summer lie,Sick to the bone for life — and sore the pillow.Shorn be the sheaf and silent be the reaper;Die by the hand that got you and be glad;Light is the sleep and troubled is the sleeperEarthed for the lusty life he never had.Lay for a dream and lay for all that’s hollow;Die for a pledge that’s sealed and you’ll die true;Deep and a soundless sleep will surely follow,And you’ll not wake the addled day to rue.

101. Let these beLet these be as words on your mouth:Cries that lie in a curlew’s throat;Dark hills north and dark hills south;Ragged leaves in a rocking boat.Let these be as words unspoken:Failing bells of a far-off day;Warm lips numb, and a wise heart broken,Ever and ever and aye.

102. Here lies a most beautiful ladyHere lies a most beautiful lady of Leydon Square,But I am not heeding the way of her days and her name;’Twas westering wind and barbs in the chinquapin oaksWhenever she came.Wherever she stepped it was glim and stain of the bayAnd grace like torque of the boughs in a wild-cherry copse,And day was as still when she went as still of the wellWhen the May moon fulls and drops.Whenever she spoke, it ’minded the purr of the stringAnd drip of the rain and wind bells in the south;In lace like feather froth on a moat she dreams,And an old grave ghost of a smile lies on her mouth.

103. Mine was the voiceI am the one who wooed you away from the falling waters;I bore you hence when fear combed the nettles to blind you.Ever you stumbled and groped, I sprang the trap before you;I have smuggled you safe through the land of the living,lest Death should find you.I am the flying leaf that warned you of winds hard-riding;Mine was the voice that cried out from the ticking oak.Call me by name, and the cliffs will sound you an answer;Touch me, and I will curl on your palms like smoke.

104. When I lie down in Leydon SquareWhen I lie down in Leydon SquareThe belfry bells do toll;From lane and brake, from sill and stair,They call the boys of Bree to prayer,But not to save my soul.When I wake up on Windham BrayThe thin train whistles cry,And all the dawn and all the dayThe clamor wins the boys away,But never such as I.The muffled drums in slow retreat,They bid the boys to war,And winding horns on hill and streetLace up the lagging hunter’s feetAnd hurry by my door.’Tis sweeter bells than stammer hereWill curve the sorrel sky,’Tis louder drums on wake and weirAnd frostier horns will halloo clearBefore I give reply.

105. Fraught with the mum of dreamsFraught with the mum of dreamsAll mortals musing walk,And life’s not what it seems:The seed’s within the stalk,The ash is in the apple,The kernel within the shell,And here’s a truth to grapple:We think not as we tell.Joy in salt of the tear,Lore in the lips that lie,A certain music whereNo music rims the sky.Aye, a man may die of itBe a scant word left unsaid;Aye, none but the living sitIn the big lap of the dead.

106. TreasureToil-worn fingers,See what I have brought you!A coin no biggerThan an elkin’s thumb.Clink it in a goblet,Hide it in your purse, orToss it in the air andListen to it hum.Toil-worn fingers,See what I have found you!A pebble as shiny asA star-sown sky.Twirl it in a pan orLay it on a shelf, orToss it in the millbrookBye and bye.

107. Oh, man, if you behold herOh, man, if you behold herAs I beheld her once,Turn the head to shoulder,Blow the stick in the sconce.No mortal man down yonderBut minds the man you beWhile he must pitch and flounderWho wooed Persephone.

108. None that will find him hereNone that will find him here,Oh, none that will tarryLong from the church the daySeelan’s to marry.None but the plummet passAnd the wing of a plover;Prone in the nimble will,Prone in the clover.None that will search him here,None but the plummet pass;Safe, in the brown sprayOf the brown broom grass.

109. Quarrel have I noneQuarrel have I none to seek with any man;Let him stride about in the sun and speak as he choose;Mine is not the design to climb on his bent backAnd harry him with the why and whither and whose.Had I a quarrel to ply with any man,For my own bones the evil word I’d borrow,That I must be so sick in soul down all my days,So shy of the stripped glove, so dulled with sorrow.

110. The shadow on the wallThe child was suddenly hushed, and the weeper,For into the black-beamed houseA footfall came and a silence deeperThan still of a gold-eyed mouse.The clock said 12, but the hands were stopped;’Twas one to the dawn and fourFrom the midnight hour the ring had droppedDown to the black-beamed floor.Nobody knew but the still child thatThe candles were ladies tallAnd the spitting fire a Maltese cat,And the shadow on the wall …

111. Surf“What is the surf like?” he asked,And I had to tell …Like wrinkled oak leaves in a rainy chorus,Like the long, long tolling of a bronze bell;Like the clatter of wild hooves on cobblestone,Like the wide whisper wound in a crooked shell;Like all unhappy tunes without any words.He asked, and I had to tell.

112. When from the wings of dayWhen from the wings of day five feathers have drifted down,When the barred shadows sleep on the walls of the town,When in the three-spired sky the rind of the moon is hung,We shall go back to the place where the world was young.These are the singing trees. Here once from the shallowsThe boar swung down and moored to the leaning sallows;This is the churn and the dip of the millwheel slowly heaving,The place beyond all knowing and all of believing.Forever, forever, the bronze light spun in the sprayTill the three-spired sky is dark in the darkening day,Till the last bronze feather is blown and the last dream done,But not one voice or a footstep sounding near:Not one.

113. Letitia ApplebyWeary at the last, I lay aside my burdenAnd pray to God the lightning will strike it where it stands;Tired and sick am I of the black wings wheelingAnd the mum of the rain on the fallow lands.Weary of the boglands and weary of the thunderThat mutters in the bracken on the hills of Bree.I have no winning charms to win back my lover;All I have to nourish is the faint heart of me.Let them clod the earth on me and thrum it in my eyes;Let the plum whiten, and the meadow clover;Sick for death am I, and so I was for loving:Hie me to a hummock and fling the earth over.

114. From out the star-girt eventideFrom out the star-girt eventideAway to sea-girt lands,The night leans down me half-awakeAnd curls around my hands.How now, my self, is this the dayYou cried for braver deedFor man to do than steer the plowAnd sow the barley seed?Alike the sky, alike the hillThat met me at the noon,And all that’s here that was not thenIs one small sickle moon;And I may rest who lent my handsTo beam and plow and wheel,And I may throw my brogans downAnd taste the bannock meal.But look, the stars are thick as gorseThat runs the rolling bray,And I’ll not burn my candle down.Now come, another day.

115. Look away from these hillsHappy indeed you are, boy, were you bornaway from the soundOf a sad river running forever underground;Happy, lad, happy indeed, had you neverthe look and the loreOf the bee-tree linden and apple acres and lonely tor.Glad was I once of the humpbacked bridge on the stony river;Happy I was with the coral cave of sun in the mere;Now with the sky stitching of wings and the girl sleeping,I would be up with my pack and going fast from here.Boy, were you born in the shadow of spires in some far city,Look away from these hills and this town; ’tis no great pityTo walk to the wall of your days without any hunger and griefFor plum going gray and the bells dumb and the worried leaf.

116. Thus to remainGriselda and her long black hairAnd the strong mountain airBrought me to sleep at last …O, never to wake again!Beyond the din of the past,The slow heartbeat of pain,With memory hard and fast.Thus to remain.

117. TheseOld dark hills for an old farmerIn a rough pine chair,Frost come soon whenever he growsToo old to care.Mare’s tail running the round moon,Plum haze on a hillFor all young boys who’ve never learnedHow to be still.For all the broken-hearted girls,Rain a drum at dark,And a row of shiny grackles inThe red shag bark.

118. The travelersWhy do you lie all day in the shade of the yew tree,Man, since the way is long and the shadows bend?“For that the road is steep, and I descend.”Why must you dream all day in the shade of the haw tree,Boy, when the journey’s long and swift as time?“For that the road is steep, and I must climb.”

119. I will bring you brown rainI will bring you brown rain from out of a brown sky;I will net you sunbeams from the bee tree bye and bye;I will pluck from the wooly dusk a skein of silver yarn,And ten little happy tinkling tunes from under the black tarn.I will make a song from out of the quinceberry bush.Deep in the eyes of a gold-brown mouse I will find a hush;And I’ll ladle out of a barrel of old, old rainSomething you thought you’d never find again.

120. From Ram to HammerseaThe woods were with me when I wentFrom Ram to Hammersea,And when I turned my brogans homeThe woods walked back with me.Though all the trees were wont to humWas foolish, fiddled sound,Oh, stop I would and hark I didAnd walk four ways around;And I would listen, I would waitFull many and many a year,So if the trees had talk for meI’d not be wanting there.Now come to woods of HammerseaAnd run three miles from Ram,And I will tell you who I wasAnd who the girl I am.

121. October plantingI called her in the garden;I could not find her there.The Chinese elms knew where,But yet so silent hung,So still of tongue.Then by the latticed arborI said the wonted name,But none to answer cameSave grackles in the beech,So full of speech.High in the raftered hall-roomWhere lately she had stoodWas scarlet kirtle hood;But all the strings lay stillTo wait her will.Now back I go to plantingMy coralberry shrubsIn twenty coral tubs;And I will plant them allAnd never call.

122. Out of the waves of deathOut of the waves of deathI darted for a space,All wondering of faceAnd short of breath.O life indeed you areMost strange and beautiful,Most lovely as the coolDeep-plunging star …All shuddering of breathAnd cowardly I amFor suddenly I swamBack to my death.

123. Lacking all mortal courageLacking all mortal courage, still I standUnfaltering of eye, steadfast of hand,And wait the end to overtake and whetThe knife. Oh, is it that I yetHave mortal courage? Is it brave to keepUnknown from all I love, this weariness for sleep?

124. How far are the hills“How far are the hills from where we stand?”Seelan, but I’d not know;Far as the fens from Hammersea,Far as we’ll ever go.“Oh, I would shake my sandals looseAnd run, and I’d never tire’Til I couldn’t see a bridge or a barnOr of Bree a single spire.”Flat are the fens outside of Bree.“Yes, and it’s flats I fain,And a city skirt and a city hatAnd a man with a gold-topped cane.“Back of the hills a boy will wait.”Now close your eyes and see,For I’ll be telling the ones who watchFor girls like you and me:Death and his tall gray buglers, blowingA tune beyond our ken;And you and I not caring a whitWhat ’tis, then.

125. PortraitMost beautiful, but gravely beautiful and wiseAs preludes played on Sunday afternoons behindA paneled door; among the crustsand the candles and the darkCascade of laughter; motionless, withdrawnThe lady sat, delicately sad and pensive and resigned.Lost as delight, but nonetheless restoredUpon this canvas, how the firelight struckA wind of fans, a jewel, a tranquil browCast in despair; was scattered and was blownTo fragments on a glass. Five generations nowSits quietly the girl, most beautiful and graveAs music once and not again intoned.Ages outnumbered, centuries hence, mayhap:Eyes beryline, lips sculptured in repose,Pale fingers delicately twined upon her lap.

126. Now I lay meNow I lay me. Where I go, I know not:Where all children go, to the bright woods of May;Where web-footed snow steps soft on the charred evening,And a long narrow sky is drained of the old day.Where do I go? Where the downy thistle goesWith the wet-eyed wind; where seldom fallIn a cave of trees the blue notes of throstles; whereYearly the ragged oak leaves bury a brown wall;Where the clock tower draws in the moon at midnight,And sleighbell sound of the toads shrills out of the burn.Now I lay me. Where I go, I know not;Wherever I dwelt once, there I will return.

127. Once having loved youOnce having loved you, is it then so strangeI love you still,Out of a lonely heart, from habit, or with onlyHalf a will?Touch me again, and I will surely trembleUnder your touch.Promise me little, I will blindly follow,Promise me much.Sorrow, so gravely wise, has taught me nothingAll these years:Little of how to love you less,Too much of tears.

128. It is nothing to cry aloneIt is nothing to cry alone, out of loneliness and despair,For a love lived out in tyranny and hate;There is a tragedy both beautiful and braveIn sorrow that is forever desolate.It is nothing to cry with many othersIn a dim cathedral or over an open graveWith the tall broom grass flowing over the hillside,wave after wave;Grief like this, among many, is intelligible and warm,Like the clashing of many leaves together in a storm.But there is something terrible aboutTwo people, breast against breast, crying togetherIn a fire-laden room while rain withoutShrieks noisily against the panes about the weather.I have come a long way to understand this and remember,Whatever else about it may be written or sung or said:One of them should always be silent and stonyhearted,And the other comforted.

129. Light of my lifeLight of my life, light of my life,Burn out.White nuns with midnight faces, come and floutThe candles, snuff the curving flame.Trace in the dark your sign and, slipping out,Leave me at last unknown, without a name.Light of my life, burn out. O darkness,ComeWith folded hands, insensible and numb.Suffer no light to break the shuttered glass;Forewarn the children: Say that here is oneLiving, but dead; nor how it came to pass.

130. Winter, that lay on my heartWinter, that lay on my heart like heavy stone, was lifted.I did not question again, I had no mind to betrayThe land-skimming snow, the shred of dark cloud followingThe innocent blind day.This is what my eyes were reluctant to envision,And what my heart was slow and stupid to learn:There is a land I go where summer is eternal;Winter will not overtake me again,Winter will not return.

131. Cold, pale, enchanted voicesCold, pale, enchanted voices,Butter-thin voices over vast stretches of waterin the early twilight, grieving,When did you cease your faint unnatural singing,your dry scuffling and shuttling,your humming and your weaving?Suddenly tuned to reality I am, and suddenly dumbWith listening for the brittle pattering and twig-breakingas you used to comeOut of the hollow of night, out of the sorrowand futile dreaming and pain.In what instant without armor did you leave me enchanted,trooping gaily away and intendingNever to sing to me again?

132. Monk’s WoodOnce out of Monk’s Wood, the voice came clearAs the cygnet’s cry on the rusty mere;And, oh, it was far, but very, very near,The voice that nobody else could hear.“You will never sorrow, never grow old,Long though you lie with the root and the mold.You will have seven sons, all in a row,On the stony hill where the woodbines blow;And all your seven sons,” so the clear voice told,“They will never sorrow, never grow old.”

133. The thorn is in my sideThe thorn is in my side.I do not pluck it out,And if I should or notI am in doubt.If joy were deep as painI should not hesitate,Nor would I doubt if loveWere deep as hate.

134. The little island TanickWhenever I feel sad and useless and outworn,I like to think again of Tanick in July,Big as a big room, with a dock and an iron ringAnd a pine scratched blue on a gray-slate sky.Life deep within me, life wide outside meAnd kinder there, I guess, than will ever be again;So I’ll think if I may of the little island TanickAnd all the dark islands in the highland rain.

135. The peddlerGypsy wares from a saddle pack was all he had to sell,And I bought a pair of buckled shoesand a dress of seaman’s blue,But I hadn’t the frame to fit the dress,Nor the foot to fit the shoe.Now running along a clay road, red as berry juice,I think hard and fast of the one who bade me buyWith a wave of the hand, a click of the heelsAnd a wink in the wicked eye.

136. Death song of Mahmud Khan in a Persian gardenDeep in the throat of nightWild peacocks cryUnder the slow moon, underThe lip of the sky.Pale as the lotus-bud,Your well-remembered lips.Still as this wide whitePool, your fingertips.Hafiz once wandered hereAnd sang of his delight;What is a thousand years,Hafiz, a dream’s flight?What is a thousand years,Hafiz — a swift, hurt cryUnder the slow moon, underThe lip of the sky?

137. Life, inarticulateLife, inarticulate and meaningless, absurdAs feathers plumed in silly hats,As one fleet, feathery wordLet try its wings above the teacups and the tall, red glassesOn a low tea table.Unsteady as a toy boat in a swell, unstableLife: Careless and comfortless, unkind.Now I shall try to understand, explainYour deeds away,Forgive your trespasses, as anybody wouldExcuse a child, careless and gay and mischievous, yet good.

138. SeascapeFrond on frond of darkness, and the woodsGone gray,And steepled shafts of lightLaid on the shallow waters of the bay.Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight,The seabound schooners say.Far out beyond the reefThe water takes its grief.Goodnight …Now rustle in the eavesThe brown October leaves.

139. Hunter’s wifeColorless is your laughter,Dry and brittle and deceiving are your tears.Find him a better welcome to your lips than these.Sweet in repose, your mouth is sweet enoughFor most men’s kisses, even one who goesUnder the stars at night and knowsWhere the bull elk stands and the coyote crouches and barks.He will be coming back too soon.Dash out the tears, suppress the chilly laughter.(Colorless the laughter, dry and brittle the tears.)

140. Watch for me in the wild thicketsWatch for me in the wild thickets;I will runThrough tall catalpasSpattered with the sun,Wild-eyed and startled as the listening doe;But stareNot into somber maples.Nine steps south, and goWest, and westward keep,Else you might one day find me thereDrowned in a leafy silence, byAll the winds asleep.

141. Died youngFace downward in the rusty water,under the rotting stays of an old wharf,Between a canal barge smelling of oil and tarand red bricks from ToledoAnd a trim cat-boat tracing a delicate white shadowon the oily surface of the bay,With a tin can tangled in your hairAnd rubbish swimming in the bloated leg of your trousers.Not a scratch anywhere, they said.Not anything but a neat, round hole in the back of your head,As neat and as round as a hole bored in fine,old walnut for a lock and a key.Two streets this way, and one over,And pigeons squealing down from the bell towerof Our Lady of Grace, Mary;I shall never walk this street again.Never budge this door, enter the dank hallway, press the bell,Race the stairs two at a time, rattle the doorknob of your room.Never again.You would not be sprawled with a book under your elbowson the floor,Nor laugh at me, rubbing your chin, under the splotchy printof Van Gogh’s “Blooming Apple Orchard” in the dark.I did not know you were dead.I swear I didn’t know you were dead.I was dancing to the sweet, sweet tunes of an orchestraon the armOf a fat man in a checkered suit, wearing a bow tie,Asking me would I like to come up and lookAt his etchingsSometime.I would have you believe I did not know you were dead.I would swear it.

“Sweet Georgia Brown,” sweet, sweet Georgia Brown,the orchestra played,And the dark pressed down between the casino and the shore,Where I heard the fog horns talking to the bottom of the bay.

142. Cherry blossoms: Uyeno ParkWas it a star that fell,Or the pale ash of a dream?Was it the note of a bell,Rain in a swift stream?Was it a song in the gloom,White with the wind’s rust?It was a cherry bloom …It falls when it must.

143. Lie down, lie down, my soulLie down, lie down, my soul,Give up the quarrel.Come, take the root with valley yew and sorrel;Sip valley water and stride valley fen;The barrow’s not for such as you, I ken.Shoulder the yoke, my soul,Slip on the fetter;’Tis sweeter far to dream than dare, oh betterTo rue the day! There’s none who minds or willIf you would hug the hollow or the hill.

144. Fall if you willFall if you will, my star;Another star will soar.Fail if you must, my love;I need you little more.Another love will riseTo fill me with despair;I need not care.Come, all my friends, betray,For what care IWho have become so intimateWith the unanswering sky?

145. A brush dipped in amberThe best is not beautiful, though you may believe it,And believe it, and believe itTo the end of your time;And the best is not perishable, like a moment’s miracleOr a brush dipped in amber or an unworded rhyme.The best is familiar, the best is the commonplaceSight that you rub like the dust from your eyes;The best is not beautiful (believe it, believe it,To the end of your lean days, runners in the skies).

146. If you have never touched the earthIf you have never touched the earthThen, once before you die,Lean down and press your mouth close there,Even as I.If you have never walked aloneThen, once before you go,Follow the gypsy hill-high trail;I have, so.Love earth a moment, love lost lanes,Just once before you die,To mark the spot where …Even as I,Even as I.

147. Old Lady CassidySometimes they saw her on the village streets,Her hair wet-blown and streaming like the summer rain;Her eyes like blackened pennies in the dust,Her hands so restless, like the grieving boughsOf naked trees in autumn, stripped of gold.The little children mocked her, shouted sharp and shrillWhen she came tottering over the long hillThat wound up to the weather-beaten house,Which stared so blankly down upon the town.They said she talked with trees, and stones, and streams,And danced in frenzied glee beneath the moon,And caught the golden beach leaves in her hand,Flinging them to the wind like glistening coins.They said she slit a blackbird’s tongueAnd talked with him in strange and alien words.They said she had a pouch tied with stringBeneath her breast, and in it was a sparrow’s heart;And when the moon was full and no wind blew,She cast a spell about her — so they said.And when she died, they searched her barren houseFor gold, and poisoned fruits, and a witch’s brew,But all they found was a blackbird in a cage,Preening his feathers listlessly, loathe to cry,And faded petals pressed within a book,And a sheaf of letters tied with faded string.

148. Please, God, no curlers tonight 1Take from my lips the sounds of my delight,Take from my eyes the wondrous gift of sight,Take from my swift sure feet the power of flight —But please, God, no curlers tonight!Visit this frame with plague and scourge and blight,Banish these bones to Brooklyn, Isle of Wight,Or darkest Africa — but see my plight!Oh please, God, no curlers tonight!Thou in thy goodness gave me gift of sight,Thou in thy goodness gave me teeth to bite,But thou, too, gave me hair a perfect fright —So, God, I must wear curlers tonight.When to the airy kingdom I take flight,Far from the world of men, beyond the light,Ah, shed no tears, but on my tombstone write:“She died with smiles — no curlers tonight!”1 This poem was read at the end of Mary Landon MacKenzie’s memorialservice on April 26, 2003, when her ashes were interred next to her husband’sgrave in the North Elba Cemetery. She had died the week before, on April 15,a month and 3 days after her 89 th birthday.

The Secret Poems of Mary C. LandonThis is an unusual volume of poetry, in more ways than youwould ever imagine.A young Lake Placid woman named Mary Landon wrote thesepoems in the 1930s.She wrote the first of them when she was 17 years old andalready a year out of high school.She wrote the last of them—at least, the last of those with adate on them—when she was 23.And then, as far as we know, she just stopped writing poetry.She established a career, made a marriage, planted a garden,built a house, climbed more than a few mountains, pursued ahobby in geology, and became active in local politics.Later in her life—when she was known by her married name ofMary MacKenzie—she agreed to start compiling the history of hercommunity, a task to which she dedicated nearly 40 years of herlife. She became widely known and well-loved for her skill, herinsight, her voice, and her commitment to the Adirondacks.And, through all of that, she hid away the poetry she hadwritten as a young woman, telling no one that she'd written it. Shesaved it, probably not knowing why, but saving it nonetheless—because it was precious to her.Thank goodness that she did.Discovered by Mary's family shortly after her death in 2003,the poems were edited by a local journalist and first published as aspecial supplement by Blueline, the literary magazine of theAdirondacks, in 2005.* * *"[Mary] was a hometown girl who never went to college, adruggist's daughter with bright-headed dreams. 'Best Writer,' herfellow seniors at Lake Placid Central School voted her in 1930.What she hoped to write were poems, good ones, hard-wrought andeconomizing like Millay and Dickinson and Frost. Tuneful, too, thekind you want to read out loud, a candle stuck in a Chianti bottle,an audience of one. … Every time I riffle through Mary's poems Ifind a new one to beguile me, another line that stops me cold."—Amy Godine, Adirondack Life magazine