No More Learning

Little priests, little holy fathers,
None can doubt the truth of hour hymning.
When the marvellous chorus comes over the
water,
Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.



The trees in the garden rained flowers.
Children ran there joyously.
They gathered the flowers
Each to himself.
Now there were some
Who gathered great heaps--
Having opportunity and skill--
Until, behold, only chance blossoms
Remained for the feeble.
Then a little spindling tutor
Ran importantly to the father, crying:
"Pray, come hither!
"See this unjust thing in your garden! "
But when the father had surveyed,
He admonished the tutor:
"Not so, small sage!
"This thing is just.
"For, look you,
"Are not they who possess the flowers
"Stronger, bolder, shrewder
"Than they who have none?
"Why should the strong--
"The beautiful strong--
"Why should they not have the flowers?

Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to the
ground.
"My lord," he said,
"The stars are displaced
"By this towering wisdom. "




INTRIGUE

Thou art my love,
And thou art the peace of sundown
When the blue shadows soothe,
And the grasses and the leaves sleep
To the song of the little brooks,
Woe is me.
Thou art my love,
And thou art a strorm
That breaks black in the sky,
And, sweeping headlong,
Drenches and cowers each tree,
And at the panting end
There is no sound
Save the melancholy cry of a single owl--
Woe is me!

Thou are my love,
And thou art a tinsel thing,
And I in my play
Broke thee easily,
And from the little fragments
Arose my long sorrow--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a wary violet,
Drooping from sun-caresses,
Answering mine carelessly--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art the ashes of other men's love,
And I bury my face in these ashes,
And I love them--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art the beard
On another man's face--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a temple,
And in this temple is an altar,
And on this altar is my heart--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a wretch.
Let these sacred love-lies choke thee,
From I am come to where I know your lies
as truth
And you truth as lies--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a priestess,
And in they hand is a bloody dagger,
And my doom comes to me surely--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a skull with ruby eyes,
And I love thee--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And I doubt thee.
And if peace came with thy murder
Then would I murder--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art death,
Aye, thou art death
Black and yet black,
But I love thee,
I love thee--
Woe, welcome woe, to me.




Love, forgive me if I wish you grief,
For in your grief
You huddle to my breast,
And for it
Would I pay the price of your grief.

You walk among men
And all men do not surrender,
And thus I understand
That love reaches his hand
In mercy to me.

He had your picture in his room,
A scurvy traitor picture,
And he smiled
--Merely a fat complacence of men who
know fine women--
And thus I divided with him
A part of my love.