Oh, radiant Song! Oh, gracious Memory! Be long upon this height I shall not climb again! I know the way you mean,--the little night, And the long empty day,--never to see Again the angry light, Or hear the hungry noises cry my brain! Ah, but she, Your other sister and my other soul, She shall again be mine; And I shall drink her from a silver bowl, A chilly thin green wine, Not bitter to the taste, Not sweet, Not of your press, oh, restless, clamorous nine,-- To foam beneath the frantic hoofs of mirth-- But savoring faintly of the acid earth, And trod by pensive feet From perfect clusters ripened without haste Out of the urgent heat In some clear glimmering vaulted twilight under the odorous vine. Lift up your lyres! Sing on! But as for me, I seek your sister whither she is gone. MEMORIAL TO D. C. [VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918] Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats, Where now no more the music is, With hands that wrote you little notes I write you little elegies! EPITAPH Heap not on this mound Roses that she loved so well; Why bewilder her with roses, That she cannot see or smell? She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes. PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE Be to her, Persephone, All the things I might not be; Take her head upon your knee. She that was so proud and wild, Flippant, arrogant and free, She that had no need of me, Is a little lonely child Lost in Hell,--Persephone, Take her head upon your knee; Say to her, "My dear, my dear, It is not so dreadful here." CHORUS Give away her gowns, Give away her shoes; She has no more use For her fragrant gowns; Take them all down, Blue, green, blue, Lilac, pink, blue, From their padded hangers; She will dance no more In her narrow shoes; Sweep her narrow shoes From the closet floor. ELEGY Let them bury your big eyes In the secret earth securely, Your thin fingers, and your fair, Soft, indefinite-colored hair,-- All of these in some way, surely, From the secret earth shall rise; Not for these I sit and stare, Broken and bereft completely; Your young flesh that sat so neatly On your little bones will sweetly Blossom in the air. But your voice,--never the rushing Of a river underground, Not the rising of the wind In the trees before the rain, Not the woodcock's watery call, Not the note the white-throat utters, Not the feet of children pushing Yellow leaves along the gutters In the blue and bitter fall, Shall content my musing mind For the beauty of that sound That in no new way at all Ever will be heard again.