You are not he. Who are you, lying in his place on the bed And rigid and indifferent to me? His mouth, though he laughed or sulked, Was always warm and red And good to me.
And his eyes could see The white moon hang like a breast revealed By the slipping shawl of stars, Could see the small stars tremble As the heart beneath did wield Systole, diastole.
And he showed it me So, when he made his love to me; And his brows like rocks on the sea jut out, And his eyes were deep like the sea With shadow, and he looked at me, Till I sank in him like the sea, Awfully.
Oh, he was multiform— Which then was he among the manifold? The gay, the sorrowful, the seer? I have loved a rich race of men in one— But not this, this never-warm Metal-cold—!
Ah masquerader! With your steel face white-enamelled, Were you he, after all, and I never Saw you or felt you in kissing? —Yet sometimes my heart was trammelled With fear, evader!
Then was it you After all, this cold, hard man? —Ah no, look up at me, Tell me it isn’t true, That you’re only frightening me!
You will not stir, Nor hear me, not a sound. —Then it was you— And all this time you were Like this when I lived with you.
It is not true, I am frightened, I am frightened of you And of everything. O God!—God too Has deceived me in everything, In everything.
_A woman taunts her lover_: Look at the little darlings in the corn! The rye is taller than you, who think yourself So high and mighty: look how its heads are borne Dark and proud on the sky, like a number of knights Passing with spears and pennants and manly scorn.
And always likely!—Oh, if I could ride With my head held high-serene against the sky Do you think I’d have a creature like you at my side With your gloom and your doubt that you love me? O darling rye, How I adore you for your simple pride!
And those bright fireflies wafting in between And over the swaying cornstalks, just above All their dark-feathered helmets, like little green Stars come low and wandering here for love Of this dark earth, and wandering all serene—!
How I adore you, you happy things, you dears, Riding the air and carrying all the time Your little lanterns behind you: it cheers My heart to see you settling and trying to climb The corn-stalks, tipping with fire their spears. All over the corn’s dim motion, against the blue Dark sky of night, the wandering glitter, the swarm Of questing brilliant things:—you joy, you true Spirit of careless joy: ah, how I warm My poor and perished soul at the joy of you!