Muriel Stuart

There shall be a song for both of us that day Though fools say you have long outlived your songs, And when, perhaps, because your hair is grey,

ANDROMEDA (the spirit of woman). PERSEUS (the new spirit of man). CHORUS (1) Women who desire the old thrall.

"The Lord appeared in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush and behold, the bush burned with fire and the bush was not consumed." - EXODUS III. 2. When to your virgin heart, unstirred, ungiven, Upon the quiet mountain side untrod,

Round them a fierce, wide, crazy noon Heaves with crushed lips and glowing sides Against the huge and drowsy sun.

Did he forget? ... I do not remember, All I had of him once I still have to-day; He was lovely to me as the word "amber,"

Are you my songs, importunate of praise? Be still, remember for your comforting That sweeter birds have had less leave to sing

Dawn has flashed up the startled skies, Night has gone out beneath the hill Many sweet times; before our eyes

This Poem, Dedicated to His Mother. To twilight heads comes Death as comes a friend, As with the gentle fading of the year

"I thought you loved me."    "No, it was only fun." "When we stood there, closer than all?"    "Well, the harvest moon "Was shining and queer in your hair, and it turned my head."

Men wondered why I loved you, and none guessed How sweet your slow, divine stupidity, Your look of earth, your sense of drowsy rest,

Do you remember, Leda? There are those who love, to whom Love brings Great gladness: such thing have not I.

Unaware of its terror, And but half aware Of the world's beauty near her -

1. I am one of the wind's stories, I am a fancy of the rain, -

I am growing old: I have kept youth too long, But I dare not let them know it now. I have done the heart of youth a grievous wrong,

I will not have roses in my room again, Nor listen to sonnets of Michael Angelo To-night nor any night, nor fret my brain

I am not true, but you would pardon this If you could see the tortured spirit take Its place beside you in the dark, and break

"What did she leave?" ... Only these hungry miser-words, poor heart! Not "Did she love?"    "Did she suffer?"    "Was she sad

Give me no coil of d'mon flowers - Pale Messalines that faint and brood Through the spent secret twilight hours

The evening found us whom the day had fled, Once more in bitter anger, you and I, Over some small, some foolish, trivial thing

You give no portent of impermanence Though before sun goes you are long gone hence, Your bright, inherited crown

If I have given myself to you and you, And if these pale hands are not virginal, Nor these bright lips beneath your own lips true,

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie, Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand, Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -

The mind is Beauty's thief, the poet takes The golden spendthrift's trail among the blooms Where she stands tossing silver in the lakes,

I raised the veil, I loosed the bands, I took the dead thing from its place. Like a warm stream in frozen lands

The low bay melts into a ring of silver, And slips it on the shore's reluctant finger, Though in an hour the tide will turn, will tremble,

Between two common days this day was hung When Love went to the ending that was his; His seamless robe was rent, his brow was wrung,

Is it not a wonderful thing to be able to force an astonished plant to bear rare flowers which are foreign to it ... and to obtain a marvellous result from sap which, left to itself, would have produced corollas without beauty? - VIRGIL. I stood forlorn and pale, Pressed by the cold sand, pinched by the thin grass,

Is it not brave to be a king, Techelles! - Usumcasane and Theridamas, Is it not passing brave to be a king,