Part 2

Marianna Alcoforando

(The Portuguese Nun--1640-1723)

The sparrows wake beneath the convent eaves; I think I have not slept the whole night through. But I am old; the aged scarcely know The times they wake and sleep, for life burns down; They breathe the calm of death before they die. The long night ends, the day comes creeping in, Showing the sorrows that the darkness hid, The bended head of Christ, the blood, the thorns, The wall's gray stains of damp, the pallet bed Where little Sister Marta dreams of saints, Waking with arms outstretched imploringly That seek to stay a vision's vanishing. I never had a vision, yet for me Our Lady smiled while all the convent slept One winter midnight hushed around with snow-- I thought she might be kinder than the rest, And so I came to kneel before her feet, Sick with love's sorrow and love's bitterness. But when I would have made the blessed sign, I found the water frozen in the font, And touched but ice within the carved stone. The saints had hid themselves away from me, Leaving the windows black against the night; And when I sank upon the altar steps, Before the Virgin Mother and her Child, The last, pale, low-burnt taper flickered out, But in the darkness, smooth and fathomless, Still twinkled like a star the holy lamp That cast a dusky glow upon her face. Then through the numbing cold peace fell on me, Submission and the gracious gift of tears, For when I looked, Oh! blessed miracle, Her lips had parted and Our Lady smiled! And then I knew that Love is worth its pain And that my heart was richer for his sake, Since lack of love is bitterest of all.

The day is broad awake--the first long beam Of level sun finds Sister Marta's face, And trembling there it lights a timid smile Upon the lips that say so many prayers, And have no words for hate and none for love. But when she passes where her prayers have gone, Will God not smile a little sadly then, And send her back with gentle words to earth That she may hold a child against her breast And feel its little hands upon her hair? We weep before the Blessed Mother's shrine, To think upon her sorrows, but her joys What nun could ever know a tithing of? The precious hours she watched above His sleep Were worth the fearful anguish of the end. Yea, lack of love is bitterest of all; Yet I have felt what thing it is to know One thought forever, sleeping or awake; To say one name whose sweetness grows so strange That it might work a spell on those who weep; To feel the weight of love upon my heart So heavy that the blood can scarcely flow. Love comes to some unlooked-for, quietly, As when at twilight, with a soft surprise, We see the new-born crescent in the blue; And unto others love is planet-like, A cold and placid gleam that wavers not, And there are those who wait the call of love Expectant of his coming, as we watch To see the east grow pallid ere the moon Lifts up her flower-like head against the night. Love came to me as comes a cruel sun, That on some rain-drenched morning, when the leaves Are bowed beneath their clinging weight of drops, Tears through the mist, and burns with fervent heat The tender grasses and the meadow flowers; Then suddenly the heavy clouds close in And through the dark the thunder's muttering Is drowned amid the dashing of the rain.

But I have seen my day grow calm again. The sun sets slowly on a peaceful world, And sheds a quiet light across the fields.

Guenevere

I was a queen, and I have lost my crown; A wife, and I have broken all my vows; A lover, and I ruined him I loved:-- There is no other havoc left to do. A little month ago I was a queen, And mothers held their babies up to see When I came riding out of Camelot. The women smiled, and all the world smiled too. And now, what woman's eyes would smile on me? I still am beautiful, and yet what child Would think of me as some high, heaven-sent thing, An angel, clad in gold and miniver? The world would run from me, and yet am I No different from the queen they used to love. If water, flowing silver over stones, Is forded, and beneath the horses' feet Grows turbid suddenly, it clears again, And men will drink it with no thought of harm. Yet I am branded for a single fault.

I was the flower amid a toiling world, Where people smiled to see one happy thing, And they were proud and glad to raise me high; They only asked that I should be right fair, A little kind, and gowned wondrously, And surely it were little praise to me If I had pleased them well throughout my life.

I was a queen, the daughter of a king. The crown was never heavy on my head, It was my right, and was a part of me. The women thought me proud, the men were kind, And bowed right gallantly to kiss my hand, And watched me as I passed them calmly by, Along the halls I shall not tread again. What if, to-night, I should revisit them? The warders at the gates, the kitchen-maids, The very beggars would stand off from me, And I, their queen, would climb the stairs alone, Pass through the banquet-hall, a loathed thing, And seek my chambers for a hiding-place, And I should find them but a sepulchre, The very rushes rotted on the floors, The fire in ashes on the freezing hearth. I was a queen, and he who loved me best Made me a woman for a night and day, And now I go unqueened forevermore. A queen should never dream on summer eves, When hovering spells are heavy in the dusk:-- I think no night was ever quite so still, So smoothly lit with red along the west, So deeply hushed with quiet through and through. And strangely clear, and deeply dyed with light, The trees stood straight against a paling sky, With Venus burning lamp-like in the west.

I walked alone amid a thousand flowers, That drooped their heads and drowsed beneath the dew, And all my thoughts were quieted to sleep. Behind me, on the walk, I heard a step-- I did not know my heart could tell his tread, I did not know I loved him till that hour. Within my breast I felt a wild, sick pain, The garden reeled a little, I was weak, And quick he came behind me, caught my arms, That ached beneath his touch; and then I swayed, My head fell backward and I saw his face.

All this grows bitter that was once so sweet, And many mouths must drain the dregs of it. But none will pity me, nor pity him Whom Love so lashed, and with such cruel thongs.

Erinna

They sent you in to say farewell to me, No, do not shake your head; I see your eyes That shine with tears. Sappho, you saw the sun Just now when you came hither, and again, When you have left me, all the shimmering Great meadows will laugh lightly, and the sun Put round about you warm invisible arms As might a lover, decking you with light. I go toward darkness tho' I lie so still. If I could see the sun, I should look up And drink the light until my eyes were blind; I should kneel down and kiss the blades of grass, And I should call the birds with such a voice, With such a longing, tremulous and keen, That they would fly to me and on the breast Bear evermore to tree-tops and to fields The kiss I gave them. Sappho, tell me this, Was I not sometimes fair? My eyes, my mouth, My hair that loved the wind, were they not worth The breath of love upon them? Yet he passed, And he will pass to-night when all the air Is blue with twilight; but I shall not see. I shall have gone forever. Hold my hands, Hold fast that Death may never come between; Swear by the gods you will not let me go; Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love-- But you will not assuage him. He alone Of all the gods will take no gifts from men. I am afraid, afraid.

Sappho, lean down. Last night the fever gave a dream to me, It takes my life and gives a little dream. I thought I saw him stand, the man I love, Here in my quiet chamber, with his eyes Fixed on me as I entered, while he drew Silently toward me--he who night by night Goes by my door without a thought of me-- Neared me and put his hand behind my head, And leaning toward me, kissed me on the mouth. That was a little dream for Death to give, Too short to take the whole of life for, yet I woke with lips made quiet by a kiss. The dream is worth the dying. Do not smile So sadly on me with your shining eyes, You who can set your sorrow to a song And ease your hurt by singing. But to me My songs are less than sea-sand that the wind Drives stinging over me and bears away. I have no care what place the grains may fall, Nor of my songs, if Time shall blow them back, As land-wind breaks the lines of dying foam Along the bright wet beaches, scattering The flakes once more against the laboring sea, Into oblivion. What care have I To please Apollo since Love hearkens not? Your words will live forever, men will say "She was the perfect lover"--I shall die, I loved too much to live. Go Sappho, go-- I hate your hands that beat so full of life, Go, lest my hatred hurt you. I shall die, But you will live to love and love again. He might have loved some other spring than this; I should have kept my life--I let it go. He would not love me now tho' Cypris bound Her girdle round me. I am Death's, not Love's. Go from me, Sappho, back to find the sun.

I am alone, alone. O Cyprian . . .

Love Songs

Song

You bound strong sandals on my feet, You gave me bread and wine, And bade me out, 'neath sun and stars, For all the world was mine.

Oh take the sandals off my feet, You know not what you do; For all my world is in your arms, My sun and stars are you.

The Rose and the Bee

If I were a bee and you were a rose, Would you let me in when the gray wind blows? Would you hold your petals wide apart, Would you let me in to find your heart, If you were a rose?

"If I were a rose and you were a bee, You should never go when you came to me, I should hold my love on my heart at last, I should close my leaves and keep you fast, If you were a bee."

The Song Maker

I made a hundred little songs That told the joy and pain of love, And sang them blithely, tho' I knew No whit thereof.

I was a weaver deaf and blind; A miracle was wrought for me, But I have lost my skill to weave Since I can see.

For while I sang--ah swift and strange! Love passed and touched me on the brow, And I who made so many songs Am silent now.

Wild Asters

In the spring I asked the daisies If his words were true, And the clever little daisies Always knew.