Maybe it’s a bit of a sly field That crooks a finger to them And sends them to the turnin’; Or the round firm bosom Of a little hill Acallin’ to them, them with their heads That heavy; Or maybe it’s the black look Given out of the tail of the eye; Or a white word, wingin’; Maybe it’s only the back of a little tot’s neck In the sunlight; Or the red lips of a woman Parting slow.... Sure there’s no tellin’. One I saw goin’ towards a white star At the edge of a daffydill sky, Its lights kissin’ straight into his eyes. Maybe it’s a gold piece To be taken from another In the dark; Or the neat place between the ribs Waitin’ for the knife That one comes after carryin’ for it. ’Tis few, it is, that goes with the grey road The straight road All the way, With the grey dust liftin’ at ev’ry step. ’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men, With a level look at you, or a crooked As they be passin’. Pouf! Sure, ’tis so fast they’re goin’, Does it matter about the turnin’s? TENEBRIS There is a tree, by day, That, at night, Has a shadow, A hand huge and black, With fingers long and black. All through the dark, Against the white man’s house, In the little wind, The black hand plucks and plucks At the bricks. The bricks are the color of blood and very small. Is it a black hand, Or is it a shadow? WHEN THE GREEN LIES OVER THE EARTH When the green lies over the earth, my dear, A mantle of witching grace, When the smile and the tear of the young child year Dimple across its face, And then flee, when the wind all day is sweet With the breath of growing things, When the wooing bird lights on restless feet And chirrups and trills and sings To his lady-love In the green above, Then oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year, Yours is the face that I long to have near, Yours is the face, my dear. But the green is hiding your curls, my dear, Your curls so shining and sweet; And the gold-hearted daisies this many a year Have bloomed and bloomed at your feet, And the little birds just above your head With their voices hushed, my dear, For you have sung and have prayed and have pled This many, many a year. And the blossoms fall, On the garden wall, And drift like snow on the green below. But the sharp thorn grows On the budding rose, And my heart no more leaps at the sunset glow. For oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year, Yours is the face that I long to have near, Yours is the face, my dear. A MONA LISA 1. I should like to creep Through the long brown grasses That are your lashes; I should like to poise On the very brink Of the leaf-brown pools That are your shadowed eyes; I should like to cleave Without sound, Their glimmering waters, Their unrippled waters, I should like to sink down And down And down ... And deeply drown. 2.