“My words are barren of my bliss; The strange part is that I must lie And never tell you what we say-- These things and I. “So will it be when I am not. A little more perhaps to tell; Yet then as now I may not say What I know well.” She died when all the east was red. And we are they who know her fate Because we love the way of life That she had found too late. TERZA RIMA I: OLD TALK Old Eyelot sees what never is. She says: “Pale lights move on the hill, Deep in the air are treasuries.” She says: “I never go to mill Wood-way but something walks with me, So go wood-way I always will. Wood-walking, I go mad to see What will die out just as I turn To catch it by the crooked tree. I pass the bush that I saw burning With wild black flame at full of moon. That was a sight to set one learning What things one merely doubts at noon. A-well, I know not what I learned. God send that you may learn it soon. Windows for walls, thoughts that have turned Back into folk, gateways of horn, And the wild hearts that men have burned, These things I see. And ay, one morn I saw the little people bear Away my little child new-born. They gave her food yielded in air, Honey and rose-down. I looked and she was very fair. So when the people of the town (Who did not know) believed her dead And wrapped her in a cloudy gown I did not mourn. I only said: “She is the daughter of the Day And with the Night she has been wed. “I am the mother of that one Born for two worlds. And I am she Who sees more things than moon and sun And little stars will ever see.” * * * Old Eyelot sees what never is. She says: “Green lights move on the leas, Deep in the air are treasuries.” I wonder what old Eyelot sees? II: MAGIC An ancient wildwood showed its heart to me. (O Little Wind that brought me what it said!) I went within its great nave reverently. There dwelt the silence ever lightly wed With winged sound. There the persuading green Took ancient citadels with soundless tread. Was not the opening blue of buds between Soft solitary leaves a lyric set To music of the things that lift and lean? My hands were mother-tender of the net Of silk they found. My feet were light To loose no dew from the least violet. The fragile fabric of dissolved night Seemed in the air. A million little minds Kept concert in the very realm of sight. O--and suddenly as sunlight finds White towers I heard the ancient wood unfold Its ancient secret piped by little winds. “Behold the beauty in me. O behold The beauty that makes utter peace, in me; Beauty that is immeasurably old.”