She throws cord-reins of sunbeams wrought, About the sunset-panthers, fleet, And rides them joyously, when caught, Across the poppied fields of wheat— Their hearts with terror beat. They reach the caverns of the Sun, The raven-clouds above them fly; Dame Night her tapestry’s begun. High, o’er the forest of the sky The moon, a boat, sails by. Iteration My son is dead and I am going blind, And in the Ishmael-wind of grief I tremble like a leaf; I have no mind for any word you say: My son is dead and I am going blind. April I loved her more than moon or sun— There is no moon or sun for me; Of lovely things to look upon, The loveliest was she. She does not hear me, though I sing— And, oh, my heart is like to break! The world awakens with the Spring, But she—she does not wake! Scarlet—White (_Struck at the double standard_) The woman who is scarlet now Was soul of whiteness yesterday; A void is she wherein a man May leave his lust to-day. ’Twas with the kiss Ischariot A traitor bore her heart away; Her body now is leased by men That kneel at church to pray. Three Apples I who am Giver of Life Out of the cradle of dawn Bring you this infant of song.— He has a golden tongue And wings upon his feet. The apple of silver he holds Once lay at the breast of the moon; I give him an apple of gold ’Twas forged in the fires of the sun; This apple of copper I give That Sunset concealed in her hair. When from the husk of dusk I shake the stars, Down slumber’s vine I’ll send him dreams in dew, And peace will overtake him like a song Like thoughts of love invade a lover’s mind. The spear-scars of the red world he will wear As women in their hair may wear a rose. On the rosary of his days He will say a prayer for your sake, The hounds-o’-wonder will lie at his side, And lick the dust-o’-the-world from his feet. The apple of silver will work him a charm When under his pillow he lays it at night; The apple of copper will warm his heart When a heart he loves grows cold on his own; The apple of gold will teach him a song For children to sing when he blows on a reed; The dew will hear and run to the sun, The sun will whisper it in my ear, And you, being dead, the song will hear. Zarathustra Vs. Rheims GEORGE SOULE