And when the music arose at last A sort of madness whirled in my brain. For what was this Carmen thing But subtle wickedness and cruel lust And hardest heathenism, And delight that seeks its own, In a setting of bloody voluptuousness, Fiendish caprice and faithlessness, In music through which a pagan soul Had sensed and voiced it all? Till at least (I almost shrieked at this) Don Jose in his amorous madness Plunged a knife in the back of the whore he loved To the growl of horns and moan of viols.... And you sat through it all Like a firefly on a vine leaf Suspiring in all your body, And gazing with calm Egyptian eyes, Or turning to me as if you would know If the poison was in my blood.... But I was immune: Democracy seemed too glorious, And the cause of the poor too just, And fair sweet love of men and women So worth the cost to gain and keep, And honest bread too sweet-- I was immune.... And I scarcely saw the fair slim girl To whom you introduced me. And I scarcely heard what you said in the carriage About her countless riches. And I scarcely heard your words of praise That I looked like a prince, And that you meant to help me, And do by me what your husband would do If he were living, And lift me along to a place in life Where power and riches are, And beauty is and music, And where struggle and sacrifice are forgotten. And when I did not answer you thought I sat abashed by your side. Instead in my mind were running The notes to Queen Mab, And bits of Greek. I did this to stifle my wrath, And to forget the cage you were luring me into, And the poison you were offering me, And the cause of Truth! And hiding my wrath in a day or two I left you saying I would return, But I never returned. Instead I went where the youths were thinking, Painting and writing, And talking of the revolution, And the glorious day to come. And I was happy even though They sent my great translation back As poor and amateurish. For the years of youth were long ahead There was time to try again.... Then Margaret’s stepmother Drove her from home, and she came to the city Crying in her loneliness and destitution, Suffering from her lame hip. And even these were happy days, For I loved her for her sorrows, I loved her for her lameness. It was all transfigured through my love For democracy and sacrifice, And the sweetness of honest bread. And it was like taking the sacrament, our marriage. And there in our little flat far out On Robey Street I toiled at writing While she went about so lame, Trying to keep the house for me, And to clear away the disorders Which piled about her constantly And were never cleared away....