Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The Tired WomanMax Michelson
Scene: A street of ugly red-brick rooming-houses. It is sunny but clouds are visible. The Woman is walking slowly. Messengers of Rest, clad in dark-grey and carrying a flowered carpet, appear.
First Messenger, spreading the carpet:
Bend, grains of wool,
Keep the blows
Of the sharp earth
From her tired feet.
Curl under,
Bend halfway,
Lift them gently,
Push them softly.
As the sea-children at play
Carry a ship,
As the delicate grass-spirits a bird.
[They disappear. Messengers of Light, dressed in gleaming greyish white, and riding on silver horses with gold reins, appear. They carry tall urns.]
Odd-shaped monsters,
Some with tails and some with wings,
Pursued us,
But our gleaming silver horses
Outran them.
We see them—
Hurry—hurry!
[They pour from the urns something which makes the pieces of wood and stone shine, and then disappear. Messengers of Beauty, clad like wall-painters, and carrying long brushes, appear.]
Sorrow and squalor
Fly, fly away!
Spirit of beauty,
Spirit of youth,
Blow on tired hearts,
Breathe on tired eyes.
Pop up from your corners,
Delicate little joys—
Peeping joys,
Sleeping joys.
Wake up—sleeping lights,
Sleeping colors!
[The woman sits down on a bench in a little park which is near. The Apparition comes slowly and sits down on the edge of the bench.]
Did I frighten you?
Shall I go away?
Have I—seen you before?
Yes … years ago … Where?
Years ago…. Yes.
You were young …
Odorous grasses,
Trees molten in darkness,
A mild little wind
Bounding like a willow,
Like a playful dog …
You were—
I loved him.
I was not I—I was a spirit.
I was borne, borne …
I know. I knew.
I knew all.
I think I can remember
A glimpse of your face
In the distance … always …
Half of your kisses
Were for me.
For you?[As if from a trance.]
I climbed a mountain,
I waded a thick wood,
Your face always shone before me.
The butterfly
I could not catch …
And later—in later years—
Yes,
In later years—
Even when you were with Whiteley
That night in New York—
[The Woman screams and hides her face.]
Even then
Your hands reached out to me,
Clutched at me.
Its wings shone
Even in the dark…. It was
Made of light.
I kept each thorn
From going too deep
In your soul.
Each shame
I washed.
And the pain
I soothed,
Soothed …
[The Woman sits long with lowered head softly crying. Then she raises her face, and it beams with a strange proud light. The Apparition walks slowly away.]