| |
| I AM a woman, sick for passion, | |
| Sitting under the golden beech trees. | |
| I am a woman, sick for passion, | |
| Crumbling the beech-leaves to powder in my fingers. | |
| The servants say: “Yes, my Lady,” and “No, my Lady.” | 5 |
| And all day long my husband calls me | |
| From his invalid chair: | |
| “Mary, Mary, where are you, Mary? I want you.” | |
| Why does he want me? | |
| When I come he only pats my hand | 10 |
| And asks me to settle his cushions. | |
| Poor little beech-leaves, | |
| Slowly falling, | |
| Crumbling, | |
| In the great park. | 15 |
| But there are many golden beech-leaves | |
| And I am alone. | |
| |
| I am a woman, sick for passion, | |
| Walking between rows of painted tulips. | |
| Parrot flowers, toucan-feathered flowers, | 20 |
| How bright you are! | |
| You hurt me with your colors, | |
| Your reds and yellows lance at me like flames. | |
| Oh, I am sick—sick— | |
| And your darting loveliness hurts my heart. | 25 |
| You burn me with your parrot-tongues. | |
| Flame! | |
| Flame! | |
| My husband taps on the window with his stick: | |
| “Mary, come in. I want you. You will take cold.” | 30 |
| |
| I am a woman, sick for passion, | |
| Gazing at a white moon hanging over tall lilies. | |
| The lilies sway and darken, | |
| And a wind ruffles my hair. | |
| There is a scrape of gravel behind me, | 35 |
| A red coat crashes scarlet against the lilies. | |
| “Cousin-Captain! | |
| I thought you were playing piquet with Sir Kenelm.” | |
| “Piquet, Dear Heart! And such a moon!” | |
| Your red coat chokes me, Cousin-Captain. | 40 |
| Blood-color, your coat: | |
| I am sick—sick—for your heart. | |
| Keep away from me, Cousin-Captain. | |
| Your scarlet coat dazzles and confuses me. | |
| O heart of red blood, what shall I do! | 45 |
| Even the lilies blow for the bee. | |
| Does your heart beat so loud, Beloved? | |
| No, it is the tower-clock chiming eleven. | |
| I must go in and give my husband his posset. | |
| I hear him calling: | 50 |
| “Mary, where are you? I want you.” | |
| I am a woman, sick for passion, | |
| Waiting in the long, black room for the funeral procession to pass. | |
| I sent a messenger to town last night. | |
| When will you come? | 55 |
| Under my black dress a rose is blooming. | |
| A rose?—a heart?—it rustles for you with open petals. | |
| Come quickly, Dear, | |
| For the corridors are full of noises. | |
| In this fading light I hear whispers, | 60 |
| And the steady, stealthy purr of the wind. | |
| What keeps you, Cousin-Captain?… | |
| What was that? | |
| “Mary, I want you.” | |
| Nonsense, he is dead, | 65 |
| Buried by now. | |
| Oh, I am sick of these long, cold corridors! | |
| Sick—for what? | |
| Why do you not come? | |
| |
| I am a woman, sick—sick— | 70 |
| Sick of the touch of cold paper, | |
| Poisoned with the bitterness of ink. | |
| Snowflakes hiss, and scratch the windows. | |
| “Mary, where are you?” | |
| That voice is like water in my ears; | 75 |
| I cannot empty them. | |
| He wanted me, my husband, | |
| But these stone parlors do not want me. | |
| You do not want me either, Cousin-Captain. | |
| Your coat lied, | 80 |
| Only your white sword spoke the truth. | |
| “Mary! Mary!” | |
| Will nothing stop the white snow | |
| Sifting, | |
| Sifting? | 85 |
| Will nothing stop that voice, | |
| Drifting through the wide, dark halls? | |
| The tower-clock strikes eleven dully, stifled with snow. | |
| Softly over the still snow, | |
| Softly over the lonely park, | 90 |
| Softly … | |
| Yes, I have only my slippers, but I shall not take cold. | |
| A little dish of posset. | |
| Do the dead eat? | |
| I have done it so long, | 95 |
| So strangely long. | |
| |
