Autumn and dead leaves burning in the sharp air. And winter comforts coming in like a pageant. I shall not forget them:— Great jars laden with the raw green of pickles, Standing in a solemn row across the back of the porch, Exhaling the pungent dill; And in the very centre of the yard, You, tending the great catsup kettle of gleaming copper, Where fat, red tomatoes bobbed up and down Like jolly monks in a drunken dance. And there were bland banks of cabbages that came by the wagon-load, Soon to be cut into delicate ribbons Only to be crushed by the heavy, wooden stompers. Such feathery whiteness—to come to kraut! And after, there were grapes that hid their brightness under a grey dust, Then gushed thrilling, purple blood over the fire; And enamelled crab-apples that tricked with their fragrance But were bitter to taste. And there were spicy plums and ill-shaped quinces, And long string beans floating in pans of clear water Like slim, green fishes. And there was fish itself, Salted, silver herring from the city.... And you moved among these mysteries, Absorbed and smiling and sure; Stirring, tasting, measuring, With the precision of a ritual. I like to think of you in your years of power— You, now so shaken and so powerless— High priestess of your home. SINFONIA DOMESTICA When the white wave of a glory that is hardly I Breaks through my mind and washes it clean, I know at last the meaning of my ecstasy, And know at last my wish and what it can mean. To have sped out of life that night—to have vanished Not as a vision, but as something touched, yet grown Radiant as the moonlight, circling my naked shoulder; Wrapped in a dream of beauty, longed for, but never known. For how with our daily converse, even the sweet sharing Of thoughts, of food, of home, of common life, How shall I be that glory, that last desire For which men struggle? Is Romance in a wife? Must I bend a heart that is bowed to breaking With a frustration, inevitable and slow, And bank my flame to a low hearth fire, believing You’ll come for warmth and life to its tempered glow? Shall I mould my hope anew, to one of service, And tell my uneasy soul “Behold, this is good.” And meet you (if we do meet), even at Heaven’s threshold, With ewer and basin, with clothing and with food? LAKE SONG The lapping of lake water Is like the weeping of women, The weeping of ancient women Who grieved without rebellion. The lake falls over the shore Like tears on their curven bosoms. Here is languid, luxurious wailing; The wailing of kings’ daughters.