Beauty Intolerable

My candle burns at both ends;
    It will not last the night; 
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --
    It gives a lovely light!

I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body's weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity, -- let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.

We were very tired, we were very merry —
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable —
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry —
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

I am in love with him to whom a hyacinth is dearer
Than I shall ever be dear.
On nights when the field-mice are abroad he cannot sleep:
He hears their narrow teeth at the bulbs of his hyacinths.
But the gnawing at my heart he does not hear.

Only until this cigarette is ended,
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The color and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

I had a little Sorrow,
Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
     And shut us all within;
And, “Little Sorrow, weep,” said I,
“And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
     And think how bad I’ve been!”

Alas for pious planning—
     It mattered not a whit!
As far as gloom went in that room,
     The lamp might have been lit!
My Little Sorrow would not weep,
My Little Sin would go to sleep—
To save my soul I could not keep
     My graceless mind on it!

So up I got in anger,
     And took a book I had,
And put a ribbon on my hair
     To please a passing lad.
And, “One thing there’s no getting by—
I’ve been a wicked girl,” said I;
“But if I can’t be sorry, why,
     I might as well be glad!”

Oh, Prue she has a patient man,
And Joan a gentle lover,
And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,—
But my true love’s a rover!

Mig, her man’s as good as cheese
And honest as a briar,
Sue tells her love what he’s thinking of,—
But my dear lad’s a liar!

Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha
Are thick with Mig and Joan!
They bite their threads and shake their heads
And gnaw my name like a bone;

And Prue says, “Mine’s a patient man,
As never snaps me up,”
And Agatha, “Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,
Could live content in a cup;”

Sue’s man’s mind is like good jell—
All one colour, and clear—
And Mig’s no call to think at all
What’s to come next year,

While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,
That’s troubled with that and this;—
But they all would give the life they live
For a look from the man I kiss!

Cold he slants his eyes about,
And few enough’s his choice,—
Though he’d slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,
Or a beggar with knots in her voice,—

And Agatha will turn awake
When her good man sleeps sound,
And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue
Will hear the clock strike round;

For Prue she has a patient man,
As asks not when or why,
And Mig and Sue have naught to do
But peep who’s passing by,

Joan is paired with a putterer
That bastes and tastes and salts,
And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,—
But my true love is false!

And if I loved you Wednesday,
    Well, what is that to you? 
I do not love you Thursday --
    So much is true.

And why you come complaining
    Is more than I can see. 
I loved you Wednesday, -- yes -- but what
    Is that to me?

Put it down! I say; put it down, - here, give it to me, I know
 	what is in it, you Irish believer in fairies!  Here, let me
	smash it
Once and for all,
Against the corners of the wall!
Do we need philters?

Look at me!  Look at me! Then come here.
This fearful thing is pure
That is between us.  I want to be sure that nothing drowses it,
	Look at me!
This torture and this rapture will endure.

I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron: 
Penelope did this too. 
And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day 
And undoing it all through the night; 
Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight; 
And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light, 
And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years. 
Suddenly you burst into tears; 
There is simply nothing else to do.  

And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron: 
This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique, 
In the very best tradition, classic, Greek; 
Ulysses did this too. 
But only as a gesture, -- a gesture which implied 
To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak. 
He learned it from Penelope... 
Penelope, who really cried.

Cool and beautiful as the blossom of the wild carrot
With its crimson central eye.
Round and beautiful as the globe of the onion blossom
Were her pale breasts whereon I laid me down to die.

From the wound of my enemy that thrust me through in the dark wood
I arose; with sweat on my lip and the wild woodgrasses in my spur
I arose andstood
But never did I arise from loving her.

Once from a big, big building,
WhenI was small, small,
The queer folk in the windows
Would smile at me and call.

And in the hard wee gardens
Such pleasant men would hoe
“Sir, may we touch the little girl’s hairl”—
It was so red, you know

They cut me coloured asters
With shears so sharp and neat,
They brought me grapes and plums and pears
And pretty cakes to eat.

And out of all the windows.
No matter where we went,
The merriest eyes would follow me
And make me compliment.

There were a thousand windows,
All latticed up and down
And up to all the windows,
When we went back to town.

The queer folk put their faces,
As gentle as could be,
“Come again, little girll” they called, and I
Called back, “You come see me!”

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,
And drag me at your chariot till I die,—
Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of hearts!—
Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie
Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair,
Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr,
Who still am free, unto no querulous care
A fool, and in no temple worshipper!
I, that have bared me to your quiver's fire,
Lifted my face into its puny rain,
Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire
As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain!
(Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave,
Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave!)