She slipped into her ancient place, And, no word asked, gave none; Only the silence in her face Said seats were dear in the sun. _Two Who Crossed a Line_ (_He Crosses_) He rode across like a cavalier, Spurs clicking hard and loud; And where he tarried dropped his tear On heads he left low-bowed. But, “Even Stephen,” he cried, and struck His steed an urgent blow; He swore by youth he was a buck With savage oats to sow. To even up some standing scores, From every flower bed He passed, he plucked by threes and fours Till wheels whirled in his head. But long before the drug could tell, He took his anodyne; With scornful grace, he bowed farewell And retraversed the line. _Saturday’s Child_ Some are teethed on a silver spoon, With the stars strung for a rattle; I cut my teeth as the black raccoon-- For implements of battle. Some are swaddled in silk and down, And heralded by a star; They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gown On a night that was black as tar. For some, godfather and goddame The opulent fairies be; Dame Poverty gave me my name, And Pain godfathered me. For I was born on Saturday-- “Bad time for planting a seed,” Was all my father had to say, And, “One mouth more to feed.” Death cut the strings that gave me life, And handed me to Sorrow, The only kind of middle wife My folks could beg or borrow. _The Dance of Love_ (_After reading René Maran’s “Batouala”_) All night we danced upon our windy hill, Your dress a cloud of tangled midnight hair, And love was much too much for me to wear My leaves; the killer roared above his kill, But you danced on, and when some star would spill Its red and white upon you whirling there, I sensed a hidden beauty in the air; Though you danced on, my heart and I stood still. But suddenly a bit of morning crept Along your trembling sides of ebony; I saw the tears your tired limbs had wept, And how your breasts heaved high, how languidly Your dark arms moved; I drew you close to me; We flung ourselves upon our hill and slept. _Pagan Prayer_ Not for myself I make this prayer, But for this race of mine That stretches forth from shadowed places Dark hands for bread and wine. For me, my heart is pagan mad, My feet are never still, But give them hearths to keep them warm In homes high on a hill. For me, my faith lies fallowing, I bow not till I see, But these are humble and believe; Bless their credulity. For me, I pay my debts in kind, And see no better way, Bless these who turn the other cheek For love of you, and pray. Our Father, God, our Brother, Christ-- So are we taught to pray; Their kinship seems a little thing Who sorrow all the day.