How she cried her joy! And put her arms around him, burned away In one great moment from a goblet of fire, Which over-flowed, whatever she had felt Of shrinking or distaste, or loveless hands At any time before, and burned it there Till even the ashes sparkled, blew away In incense and in light. She rose and slipped A robe on and her slippers; drew a stand Between them for the chablis and the cake. And drank and ate with him, and showed her teeth, While laughing, shaking curls, and flinging back Her head for rapture, and in little crows. And thus the wine caught up the resting cells, And flung them in the current, and their blood Flows silently and swiftly, running deep; And their two hearts beat like the rhythmic chimes Of little bells of steel made blue by flame, Because their lives are ready now, and life Cries out to life for life to be. The fire, Lit in the altar of their eyes, is blind For mysteries that urge, the blood of them In separate streams would mingle, hurried on By energy from the heights of ancient mountains; The God himself, and Life, the Gift of God. And as result the hurrying microcosms Out of their beings sweep, seek out, embrace, Dance for the rapture of freedom, being loosed; Unite, achieve their destiny, find the cradle Of sleep and growth, take up the cryptic task Of maturation and of fashioning; Where no light is except the light of God To light the human spirit, which emerges From nothing that man knows; and where a face, To be a woman's or a man's takes form: Hands that shall gladden, lips that shall enthrall With songs or kisses, hands and lips, perhaps, To hurt and poison. All is with the fates, And all beyond us. Now the seed is sown, The flower must grow and blossom. Something comes, Perhaps, to whisper something in the ear That will exert itself against the mass That grows, proliferates; but for the rest The task is done. One thing remains alone: It is a daughter, woman, that you bear, A whisper says to her--It is her wish-- Her wish materializes in a voice Which says: the name of Elenor is sweet, Choose that for her--Elenor, which is light, The light of Helen, but a lesser light In this our larger world; a light to shine, And lure amid the tangled woodland ways Of this our life; a firefly beating wings Here, there amid the thickets of hard days. And to go out at last, as all lights do, And leave a memory, perhaps, but leave No meaning to be known of any man.... So Elenor Murray is conceived and born. * * * * *