They curb when I would dance, would dance! By all the graven Saints, it seems Most strange they make for my mischance No grim confessional of dreams! The flower of Heart’s Desire is sown In fields unknown to waking sight, Down glittering spaces, all alone I whirl the fire of my delight-- Then, on the music’s ebb and flow, Pause as a poising bird is hung, With supple body swaying slow, With parted lips and arms up-flung. VII Always of Heaven the Sisters tell, Although of earth I question most-- I would I knew the world as well As Peter and the Angel host! José may journey, never I. In all the lonely hours I spend He bids me tell my beads and sigh.... I wonder if the Saints attend? For when the moon is small and thin, And night is fragrant on the land, The earth and I are so akin I think no Saint could understand. Something within me sleeps by day; To moon and wind its petals part.... It is not for my soul I pray; Ah Virgin!--for my untried heart. PART II I This weak and silken love that meshes me Break strand from strand, O branches of the hill! Brave wind that whips me breathless, tear me free! The witch’s cobweb clings and shivers still. Now ferns there were, and fretted sun above: I plunged me where the silver water fell, But could not drown the little singing love-- The little love that murmured like a shell. Swift, swift, to drink my freedom at its flood, I ran with flying feet and lips apart, But love was wilder than my leaping blood-- Ah, louder than the beating of my heart. II I must not yield ... but if he would not sing! My stilling hands upon my breast can feel Its answer tremble like a muted string. Below the vaulted window where I kneel. He sings, he sings, to stars and listening skies. A white and haunted place my garden seems.-- I see the pleading beauty of his eyes As faces glimmer in a pool of dreams. So wooing wind might sweep a harp awake. (Oh, muting fingers on each quivering string!) I must not yield ... I think my heart will break. Mother of Heaven, if he would not sing! III Now bending like a windy stem I strive, Yet ever onward, step by step, descend. The silence is a threat, the dark alive, And love how far, how far, my journey’s end. It is the girlhood dream I leave behind, And sweeter vision never witched a maid. Into the threatening shades I wander blind: Ah, Mary, help me now! I am afraid. Yet with my fears I sway and follow still; The doorway gleams, the pleading magic charms, Step after step, with fluttering breath and will-- Step after step ... at last ... into his arms. IV