She hid her face, she murmured between her lips The low word 'Don't!' I let the flower fall, But held my hand afloat still towards the slips Of blossom she fingered, and my crisp fingers all Put forth to her: she did not move, nor I, For my hand like a snake watched hers that could not fly. Then I laughed in the dark of my heart, I did exult Like a sudden chuckling of music: I bade her eyes Meet mine, I opened her helpless eyes to consult Their fear, their shame, their joy that underlies Defeat in such a battle: in the dark of her eyes My heart was fierce to make her laughter rise ... Till her dark deeps shook with convulsive thrills, and the dark Of her spirit wavered like water thrilled with light, And my heart leaped up in longing to plunge its stark Fervour within the pool of her twilight: Within her spacious gloom, in the mystery Of her barbarous soul, to grope with ecstasy ... And I do not care though the large hands of revenge Shall get my throat at last--shall get it soon, If the joy that they are lifted to avenge Have risen red on my night as a harvest moon, Which even Death can only put out for me, And death I know is better than not-to-be. * * * * * JOHN MASEFIELD BIOGRAPHY When I am buried, all my thoughts and acts Will be reduced to lists of dates and facts, And long before this wandering flesh is rotten The dates which made me will be all forgotten; And none will know the gleam there used to be About the feast days freshly kept by me, But men will call the golden hour of bliss 'About this time,' or 'shortly after this.' Men do not heed the rungs by which men climb Those glittering steps, those milestones upon time, Those tombstones of dead selves, those hours of birth, Those moments of the soul in years of earth. They mark the height achieved, the main result, The power of freedom in the perished cult, The power of boredom in the dead man's deeds Not the bright moments of the sprinkled seeds.