My Mouche, the other day as I lay here, Slightly propped up upon this mattress-grave In which I've been interred these few eight years, I saw a dog, a little pampered slave, Running about and barking. I would have given Heaven could I have been that dog; to thrive Like him, so senseless--and so much alive! And once I called myself a blithe Hellene, Who am too much in love with life to live. (The shrug is pure Hebraic) ... For what I've been, A lenient Lord will tax me--and forgive. _Dieu me pardonnera--c'est son metier._ But this is jesting. There are other scandals You haven't heard ... Can it be dusk so soon? Or is this deeper darkness ...? Is that you, Mother? How did you come? Where are the candles?... _Over my bed a strange tree gleams_--half filled With stars and birds whose white notes glimmer through Its seven branches now that all is stilled. What? Friday night again and all my songs Forgotten? Wait ... I still can sing-- _Sh'ma Yisroel Adonai Elohenu, Adonai Echod ..._ Mouche--Mathilde!... WATERS OF BABYLON What presses about us here in the evening As you open a window and stare at a stone-gray sky, And the streets give back the jangle of meaningless movement That is tired of life and almost too tired to die. Night comes on, and even the night is wounded; There, on its breast, it carries a curved, white scar. What will you find out there that is not torn and anguished? Can God be less distressed than the least of His creatures are? Below are the blatant lights in a huddled squalor; Above are futile fires in freezing space. What can they give that you should look to them for compassion Though you bare your heart and lift an imploring face? They have seen, by countless waters and windows, The women of your race facing a stony sky; They have heard, for thousands of years, the voices of women Asking them: "Why ...?" Let the night be; it has neither knowledge nor pity. One thing alone can hope to answer your fear; It is that which struggles and blinds us and burns between us.... Let the night be. Close the window, beloved.... Come here. THE FLAMING CIRCLE Though for fifteen years you have chaffed me across the table, Slept in my arms and fingered my plunging heart, I scarcely know you; we have not known each other. For all the fierce and casual contacts, something keeps us apart. Are you struggling, perhaps, in a world that I see only dimly, Except as it sweeps toward the star on which I stand alone? Are we swung like two planets, compelled in our separate orbits, Yet held in a flaming circle far greater than our own? Last night we were single, a radiant core of completion, Surrounded by flames that embraced us but left no burns, To-day we are only ourselves; we have plans and pretensions; We move in dividing streets with our small and different concerns.