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IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ A Far Land _Date of first publication:_ 1924 _Author:_ Martha Ostenso (1900-1963) _Date first posted:_ Nov. 26, 2019 _Date last updated:_ Nov. 26, 2019 Faded Page eBook #20191146 This eBook was produced by: Mardi Desjardins, Jen Haines & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net [Cover Illustration] A FAR LAND A FAR LAND _Poems by_ MARTHA OSTENSO NEW YORK THOMAS SELTZER 1924 THERE HAVE ALSO BEEN PRINTED OF THIS EDITION ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES ON B. R. ALL-RAG PAPER, SPECIALLY BOUND, OF WHICH ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE NUMBERED AND AUTOGRAPHED COPIES ARE FOR SALE. COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY THOMAS SELTZER, INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA _To_ MY MOTHER Certain of the poems in this book have appeared in _Poetry: a Magazine of Verse_, _The Measure_, _Voices_, _Contemporary Verse_, _The Canadian Magazine_, _The American Scandinavian Review_, _The Literary Review_ of the _New York Evening Post_, _The Saturday Review of Literature_, the _New York Herald-Tribune_, and _Munsey’s Magazine_. The author’s thanks are due to the editors for their kind permission to reprint them in this book. Contents A FAR LAND 11 IN TIME OF FIRST RAIN 12 BLUE 14 RAIN FROM MY WINDOW 15 APRIL 16 “SING NO MORE OF CAMELOT” 17 IN THE POOL 18 BEFORE STORM 19 THE TRAMP 20 FAY 21 MONUMENT 22 THE MOURNERS 23 LEXICON 24 THE FARMER’S WIFE 25 WASTELAND 26 THE RETURN 28 SHE WHO BRINGS WINTER 30 CICILY AND CAPTAIN Q. 31 ON A STILE 33 KING 36 THE UNICORN AND THE HIPPOGRIF 37 THE MEADOW 38 A CAT 40 THE MERMAIDS 42 IN TURKISTAN 45 WHITE FEET 47 “WHAT NEED HAVE I” 48 THE FISHERMAN 50 CAUTION 51 FIRST SNOW 52 ROMANCE 53 ON THE WAY TO THE WOOD 54 BRUSHWOOD 55 THE STRANGER 57 AN ADVENTURE 58 CALL 60 BETROTHAL 62 “THIS I KNOW” 63 THE WITCH 64 FOOL’S SONG 65 UNDERFOOT 66 IN SORCERY 68 SO I SAY 70 A FAR LAND A Far Land Dark cannot blot the dark In the place I know, Rain cannot drown the rain, Wind cannot blow The wind of that stormed land, Where stillness falls On sudden wings, like a band Of quiet birds on ruined walls. In Time of First Rain Once again, and once, and once again, In old returning tenderness, The earth lies soft beneath dream-walking rain. The wind grows less, The light is falling, And in the dripping air no bird is calling, Too early in the Spring it is for calling, For a bird’s clear calling, A cold and clear bird’s calling. Faint lie the fainting frost-dews, pollen-light Within the hollow, withered lea, And vanish in the rain as vanish white Mists utterly. Oh, stalk unshrouded, Oh, weed and broken stem that death has crowded Close beneath the bitter winds, unshrouded, Grief, woe, unshrouded, Old sorrow, all unshrouded. Oh, wistful, darkling wood, you exquisite Cool comrade of my bliss, Weave of your glossy limbs a dimmer night And under this Shall I lie and listen To the deep stir where the webbed roots glisten, To the wet murmur in the underbrush— Too early is the Spring for the singing thrush— Too early for the gold viol of the thrush— Only dark, wet leaves, old leaves that lie In rainy willow-weft and die. Blue The round, blue sky Is a great god’s eye; On a day in Spring Most everything He sees is blue: Clear globes of dew A-swinging deep Where spiders sleep; Five robin’s eggs; Two beetle’s legs; A bluebird’s wing And a crocus ring; A thimble of rain And a bluer stain In a blue snail’s shell; Oh, who can tell Why Spring is blue? Can you—can you? Rain from My Window Rain is sweeping my front garden. Walk, Wall, and gate, new grass and tulip bed Ripple and gleam as the silver broom Brushes them in swinging, gusty curves. The gate-posts are vanishing ghosts that loom High into the lost air. Bees have fled And grasshoppers, quick-voiced, no longer talk Within the shallow green of smooth-clipped grass That leans away to let the sweeper pass. Satin-collared tulips, fearing stain, Lay their vesture broad upon the rain And stiffen like jade wax their frail stems. The pane is fretted so with running gems That I can no longer watch this blurred Silver world the silver rain has stirred. April Long ago when a Jack-in-the-pulpit Sun-worshipper, green and high And straight among the bowing fern-fronds, Was a leaf-bud taller than I, I met April deep in the forest, Deep in the green light, all alone, And she was white as anemone blossoms, White as anemones dew-blown. Now I am old, and the Jack-in-the-pulpit Is almost as tall once more as I; I seek April deep in the forest, But only a shadow passes by. “Sing No More of Camelot” Sing no more of Camelot, Nor dream of Guinevere— Glamoured castles fashion not Sea-green and sun-sheer, Ebon no barge for white Elaine, Nor armour Lancelot— Nor plume a visored steed again If thou hast once forgot— If thou hast once forgot the dear Token of the King— Who ere he left thee set a tear For a jewel on thy ring. In the Pool I saw a tiny fish like a tiny silver leaf; I saw a great fish like a great silver leaf. A path like a silver hair was carved by the tiny fish; A path like a silver sword was carved by the great fish Through the pool that was a blood opal in the sunset. The path like a silver sword Cut the path like a silver hair, And a shadow covered all the pool. Before Storm Now the tawny unicorn Beats a path around the moon, And on the ashen air is borne A twanging little tune, A sudden lonely hollow note, A lofty pool of pausing sound, Where hot and numb the shadows float Upward from the ground. Across the misty moor there flies Pale as snow and thin as air With a ghost in both his eyes A solitary hare. The Tramp Open wide the door— What does it matter That his dusty clothes Are all a-tatter? He carries moonlight On his shoulder— Open wide the door, The night grows colder. Heap the hearth fire, Seat the stranger near. Do not cringe, children, There’s naught to fear— Though he comes and goes With an alien tongue, On his ragged sleeve A thrush has sung. Fay Now my grief is spent: I know that she was fay, And that was why she went So quietly away. Now I weep no more Where her garments were For I know she wore Gowns of gossamer. Now I have no tears For her who died so soon, I know that fairy years Will outlast the moon. Now I do not sigh Where hawthorn blossoms are, I know that she is nigh Glimmering like a star. Monument Think of it! A cold grey stone To help you to remember who It was you had to bury there, Who it was had eyes as blue As cornflowers, and yellow hair The sun would have been proud to own; Who it was that caught the Spring In a fairy net and kept It in her hand, a singing thing, All the year until she slept; A cold grey stone with name and date, And the years of one so young— Does it say why the lark is late, Or why the lark has not yet sung? Or does it tell the thing it knows Of one who ’mid the living goes? The Mourners There is a shadow over the pool, And under the hushed trees. There is a chill more than a cool Breath on the wood berries. There is a bruise on the white moth’s wing, And a break in the thorn, And here where the thrush was wont to sing Is a stillness forlorn. Oh, let the red of fire blow Over this haunt of grief. Oh, let the dark rain take the woe Of broken wing and leaf. Oh, let the blind white mists fall Forever over this place And the pool and the moth and the thorn forget all The dream that was her face. Lexicon There are dark, human things You know not, simple grasses, Colder than the cold wings Of the lone wild duck that passes Hereover in the late Fall; Warmer than the warm stain On the thorn where the tall Stag winced in swift pain; Harder than the strange stone That grows not e’en a brier, Softer than the mist blown Athwart marsh-fire. I have learned dark things You know not, simple grasses,— Teach me what your cricket sings Until my learning passes. The Farmer’s Wife He will not hear the cuckoo call, The last faint snow will seal his eyes. I shall see a lone star fall Above the bare pine ere he dies. My own heart and the clock will soon Alone keep all the silence here— Unless the foolish, crying loon Or the chanting wind come near. He will not hold the soil again In his two hands, nor will his face Lift to the power of the rain That early April brings this place. To the south his orchard lies, His naked wheat-field to the west. And well will _they_ know when he dies He loved me only second best. Wasteland Here the lichens cling To the grey rocks Like the faltering Ragged locks Of an old she-fox. Here a narrow band Of water flows No broader than a hand: A black crow’s Quill sailing goes. Here’s a wrinkled grape Like a blue knot On a thread—the shape Of life caught In the death rot. Here—listen long— By windy word Of reed, nor lacy song Of wild bird Is the dumb air stirred. Here a man may own His bare soul instead Of a beauty blown Rose, ’tis said. But his soul is dead. The Return Oh, strong and faithful and enduring As my mother’s face, The sowing of the years has wrought No change in you, no ill, Wild field that I loved! The generous grace Of ragweed and of nettle caught In the ruddy fall of sun And in the silvering of rain enveils you still, And here and there a warm rut of the dun And patient earth with small, slow life is stirring. Your stiff, pale grass and weedy flowers Still proudly grow Innocent of being beautiless— (Even a little vain, Trusting no leafed thing could be low That the sky-born rain would bless) And Oh! the sunny smell of you— Of brittling stems, sweet spears long-matted lain In spider weft and gold-pricked dust and dew Through the dream and languidness of humming hours. Under the blackbird swartly flying From west to east, Under the reach of the lark from north to south You are my field—the same Brown curve along the sky—even the least Brown blade the same. To lay my mouth On the quiet of your dew sweet face And hear the deep earth of you call my name— This is to know that I have found my place— And the empty years have ended all their crying. She Who Brings Winter The old, bitter witch, She is older now, Bitterer now, And she carries a longer, stronger switch From a crookeder witch-tree bough. The mean green eye of the old bitter witch Is meaner still, Is greener still, Than it was when she hid with the toad in the ditch From the June moon high on the hill. The hateful black tooth of the old bitter witch Is more full of hate, Say the star-folk, of late, And they pretend it’s because of a bowlful of rich Elf-pudding she stole and she ate. The old, bitter witch Is older now, Is colder now, For the toad and the elves and the floating moon Have gone to a place where it’s always June, And the land that they left will be dying soon ’Neath the switch of the witch-tree bough. Cicily and Captain Q. I Cicily and Captain Q., Being young and being old, Wear spectacles of clover dew Rimmed with magic pollen gold. Cicily and Captain Q. On friendly days the wind can see, With their spectacles of dew Can spy upon him easily. Oh, for spectacles of dew! What he does is found in books, But Cicily and Captain Q. Will never tell just how he looks. II People smiled and pointed brow-ward, Shook their heads and winked an eye, When Captain Q., three-score-and-twenty, Talking inly, passed them by. Searching grassward through the garden, How could plain townspeople know That he had met a fairy walking Just there, years and years ago? III Cicily thought a good deal about love, And also some about marriage; If she were in love, she would walk in a lane, If married, she’d ride in a carriage. Fine ’twere, indeed, to canter behind Horses of bright patent leather. But horses won’t look for clovers four-leafed, Which is pleasant when two are together. IV O Cicily, see what floats in the sun! Is it of snow and gossamer spun On the blue hills by the little men For a wedding gown in the darkling glen? Or can it be that Grandfather Fay Stood in the wind till his wig blew away? On a Stile I With lavender sachet, And ruffles of lace, And a yellow poke bonnet Cupping her face, With pantalets peeping Demurely below A rustle of cretonne Trim ankles to show; With rosette of pansies Upon her slim wrist, And lips made of bud pinks That ought to be kissed, Cicily wandered The asters among, And pouted, “I’m tired Of being so young!” So she glanced cautiously Round and about, Lest Aunt Priscilla Might be walking out. Then she lifted her hoops And she scampered a mile Till she came to the southerly Side of a stile. II With coat-tails a-hanging Sable and long, With ivory hand leaning On oaken cane strong, And snug kerchief silkily Muffling a cough, And silver hair handsome If most were not off; With knee crook’d and foot slow But eye bright on tree Where high in the top the best Nuts used to be, Captain Q. down the lane Ruefully strolled, And muttered, “I’m tired Of being so old!” So, peering craftily This way and that, Lest Daughter be out To see what he was at, He flipped his stout cane And he fisked him a mile, Till he came to the northerly Side of a stile. III And Cicily climbed, and Captain Q. climbed, And they sat side by side up on high! The sun grew merry, the wind grew mild, And a lark laughed out in the sky. IV Captain Q. sat him tight, Captain Q. sat him bold, And shouted, “I’m tired Of being so old!” “Tra la! I’m tired Of being so young!” Said C. So they swung And they swung and they swung! King Rich red rooster crowing at the sun, Bright green grass growing at the sun, Fat white cow lowing at the sun, Clean spring wind blowing at the sun . . . . Who wouldn’t be the sun? The Unicorn and the Hippogrif Pity the Unicorn, Pity the Hippogrif, Souls that were never born Out of the land of If! One has a golden horn, One, they say, is golden shod, Both have the lasting scorn Of the animals of God! One has an eye of fire, One a misty silver wing. Neither folk on earth would hire Or buy for anything. One pastures on the sun, The other on the moon, I think the earth will neither one Visit very soon! The Meadow Vain, the meadow, vain was he, Listened to the wind, the trickster, On the baneful first of April— Could more folly ever be? Heard him puff of when and where He had seen the village planning All to call upon the meadow, All to see if he were fair. Summoning the sun and rain, Swelled the meadow with importance, Ordered them to dress him gaily, And to spare nor price nor pain. Smock of velvet, elfin green, Pricked in gems of dew at dawning, Wore he; rows of golden buttons With blue tassels slipped between. Never in his mind a doubt; When men built a picket round him Sniffed he at the wind and boasted, “This is just to keep you out.” Came the day. Came cows and men, Women, babies, pigs and laces, Pickles, swains and maids a-giggling; Turnips, every kind of hen. Laughing, singing in the air, Danced the folk on golden buttons, Trampled they blue dew of tassels, Oh, it was a jolly fair! A Cat How many ages Of Chinese ancestry In the fine pages Of your sleek history Must there be, feline, Tortuous mystery? Skeins of the night that Silkened the sky Over dusky pagodas Glimmering lie Down your long sides; And, thinner than water, Like water glides Your bland shadow Along the floor. How many cinnamon Blossoms bore Delicate shade through Nightingaled hours, In that remoter Life that was yours Down by the yellow, Asian sea, In lustrous, mellow Antiquity? In towers of jade And minarets ashen With dawn, did an idol Dream and fashion Your lithe and beautiful Demoniacal Movement of fur, And the curded sound Of your inward purr? Where did he find The gloomy, sunny Spheres of your eyes, Like globules of honey? Under the velvet Fall of your paws Needles the light of your Polished claws. . . . Were you a Favorite, Ages ago, Who purred at an Emperor’s Overthrow? The Mermaids Sun cannot see, Moon cannot spy, So faint are they, So deep they lie. Where sheer waters Weave and flow, They glide and wind In spangled day. Their webs of hair With ambers glow, A dream of silver Lyres are they. Their loveliness Made white and cold As apples under Skins of gold Rain cannot dim, Nor singing wind Make lull where walls Of emerald loom; Storm cannot flay Nor darkness blind Their fixed eyes In opal gloom. Soft as a blown Sea-flower, no word They breathe on the coral Like ivory curd, Where the sunless frond And pale sea fern Are ghosts of small Drowned stars that steal From their glimmering tombs And faintly burn While slow sea shadows Wreathe and wheel. Here in the sea Where all things blend In a sibilant night That has no end, Where the gloamy, watrous Silences twine And merge in the smooth dark, Coil in coil, Where globed sea fruit Like dim eyes shine, And the soft fish move In patterns of oil, Comes to their ears A threening sound Of tears and bells, Like the deeply drowned Hear where the shades Of sorcery are, Hear in the glamorous Coves of the sea: Floating laughter, Sweet and far, And a silver sound Of eternity. In Turkistan In Turkistan, in Turkistan Beside a cassia-tree there stood A maiden with a jasper fan Who blew a flute of sandal-wood. And she was like a dim cocoon All wound in mazing gossamer, Like ivory toys in ivory shoon Were the little feet of her. And she was sweet of jessamine And smooth as honey garnered from A morning full of purple sheen In swinging buds of saccharum. And I would have her for my own To love beyond a fabled sea, A golden slave beneath my throne To shine through veils of lazuli. To make upon a flute a song Lighter than a feather’s fall, And like a sunbird sing among The sunbirds on the palace wall. * * * * * In Turkistan, in Turkistan There vanished in a limpid gleam Ivory shoon and jasper fan, Like the dreaming of a dream. White Feet Who will come here when I am gone, And who will visit the fay, And hear the laugh of the leprechaun After my day? Who will follow the nimble path And the footprints of white birch leaves? Who will flee the hazel elves’ wrath And lurk where the witch owl grieves? Who will lie and laugh in the sun ’Neath clusters of bursting blue Where the sweet globes of wild grapes run Through aisles of shadow and dew? And who will have dreams of mist and silk in the pool where the gold fins sleep? And who will dip feet as white as milk Where the pool lies emerald deep? “What Need Have I” What need have I Of a fine house shining Under the sky, When a green tree is twining A roof and four walls for me, Tenderly, dreamingly? What could I do With satins and laces When the gold and the blue Of sun-woven places Clothe me each hour In the grace of a flower? What wine is there I could buy me with money— As a wood-pool clear, Golden as honey? And these two come to me From the rain and the bee. But what need have I Except of sweet living? Were tree, flower and sky Not beauty-giving, Love, you would be All of beauty to me. The Fisherman Then after all my fishing in the sea With yellow, yellow nets of maiden’s hair For fishes finical, of ivory And tortoises beshaded and ghost-rare, I draw my nets and draw them like a strand Of silken shine from out the watery light, And loop them in across the winking sand And weave of them a gloamy mantle bright As sun-stones lying in a little pool And looked upon by the first whitening star. And now I wander inland where the cool Calms of dew upon the evening are, For fishes in the sea are silver-cold And silver-pale as shavings of the moon, And I would have a little thrush to hold, And I would hear a little thrush’s tune. Caution Let us go dressed in wind That only the piquant buds of the white birch tree May see us. Let us go dressed in rain That only the sad ghost swaying in the willow tree May see us. Let us not garland The shining, naked bodies of one another, Lest in the scattered silver of the moon The white tulip tree blossom green with bitterness. First Snow Stand still in this strange, glimmering Enclosure of whiteness. There is no living sight nor sound. A bodiless lightness Are we, without form or motion, Buoyant in the soft and slow Interlacing, mazing ghost-drift Of the froth-clusters of snow. We are cloistered with enchantment: Steep walls of pearl must be Encircling us. We are alone, We two. Draw near to me. What is this waltz of white myriads? Moths gay-winged with pearl and lace— Wilderness of cool blossom-birds— Brief souls of this dim place? How solitary each descends! Almost, two meet, then one With swift preen of crystal pinions Glides to faint death alone. Draw near to me, lest we be two, I, alone, and alone, you. Romance High hangs the gauntlet on the wall, Grey with dust— The white steed stabled, The glimmering scimitar sheathed in rust. Oh, for the dream that knows no fading, The quest that knows no broken trust! Far are the hills, and vision-blue, The window barred, The strong door bolted. Argosies of ivory, amber and nard. . . . Oh, for the wind that knows no prison, Oh, for the sea that knows no guard! Adventure now but a flame in a grate— Fear but fear Of a hungry morrow. Gather in from the storm for cheer. . . . But oh, for the kiss that is not for comfort, And the unwept sorrows of yesteryear! On the Way to the Wood “There is nothing for me here,” she said, “Nothing on earth for me. For love that was all my day is dead, There is darkness, I cannot see. So I shall go into the gloom of the wood, Green silence will shroud me,” she said. “And just the red leaves when they drop like blood Will know that there’s someone dead.” But toward the wood a sweet-briar caught In its little bright hand, her gown; And a stone with a soft eye kindly thought To stay her, and tripped her down; And a lark flew over her hair with a song And a daisy kissed her knee— “I think my heart has told me wrong. There is something for me,” said she. Brushwood If there be anything of God left in the world It must be here he walks on full-moon nights. By day there’s not a sorry crow would tilt A rusty tail upon the broken fence That now and then leans on the empty air As if it still kept something in or out. The sun will show you traces of the flame That lost seasons since came down the wind And ate the very souls out of the trees; Stunted, youngish poplars, overleafed To hide the truth about their inner selves, And willows blotched and matted at the roots— Prayer rugs, you’ll say, they’re kneeling on. The grass—it isn’t grass. The earth is here A wasted crone who wears a wig of thatch. By day the lowest cloud will shun this place. But when the light has gone, some secret gate Swings open with the sound of coming wings, Forgotten dreams steal in and wake the wood— Perhaps a long gone lover comes and walks With it and sings a tender little song. It is a world of dew—and shadow-light, And darkling shoals of silence where they blend. And here the million little poplar discs Quiver like a single misty gem Fallen from some burdened star to earth. You may pause and be a giant gnome In a fairy forest where the dew Is white wine cupped in shallow chrysoprase. You may listen farther than the moon To the enchanted converse of the stars. You may listen just within the ring Of glow-worm light you’re standing in and hear A wakeful little cricket’s afterthought. Or you may listen nearer ‘til the mist Encloses but the beating of your heart. If there be anything of God abroad the earth, I think he listens here when there’s a moon. The Stranger Something—some fearful, unbodied thing haunts her, See how too-softly she walks. Something—some near thing and dark thing is listening, Hear how too-softly she talks. Something that’s shaped like a hazel-tree’s shadow Clings to the ground at her feet. And hear all about her the wing-sound of swallows That makes the air hollow and sweet. Something, some strong thing like wind on a hillside Has fastened his hand on her wrist. See, in the gloom how she fades into something That shrouds her like moonlight and mist. An Adventure I walked on tiptoe down an empty, listening street One night before the moon came up. Not a single live thing like myself I met, But glancing furtively aside I caught the blinded houses nudge each other, And, (believe me) wink. Then, grinning stilly to myself at what I thought unusual craft, I knelt Beside the way and pocketed A dozen bright, smooth pebbles, without sound. Soft on tiptoe went I through the dusk, And tossed the pebbles one by one before me On the dim, grey-faced wooded walk. They made a quick, hollow chuckle, For the boards were raised a distance From the damp ground. The blinded houses all relaxed, and sat Back upon their haunches like trained beasts Goaded with a prick to good behaviour. But I saw a shambly, narrow house, Its paint a-scaling even in the dark, Who had one slender window high between its gabled roofs. The window bore no blind, but thrust Its tall black maw upon the night With fearful movelessness. If only it would nudge, or beckon, Even leer, or sneer! At length I craved To feel the white of human features fill the jet Of that eye carved in the night. Feverishly I gaped, and threw my last Round pebble down the echoing walk. And daring not to stoop and gather more Lest in the trice the sphinx-like window spring To some appalling life, I broke the moonless spell That bound the place. And the brisk click of my heels hurried down An ordinary street. Call Soul that I loved while in beauty I dwelt with you, Come to me here, Here where the wild swan crosses the moon With a clangor of fear, And down the steep way of the forest A white lance shivering throws Into the heart of the pool That unfolds like a silver rose. Soul that I loved, here may we dwell As light as a golden night-hawk’s feather Curved in the curve of a shadowy shell, Alone, you and I together. And only the mysteries of the pool, Of deeps of sapphire and rainbow shallows, The flame of a fin and the fire of a scale, And an olive fleck of sunken shale, Under the glittering wings of the swallows, Under the willows bronze in the twilight— These, only these shall know we are here, Shall know that we hide in the limpid hollows, And lie on the edges Of satin sedges, And listen alone To a purple bird singing on a purple stone. Now over each enfolded thing Glooms the night as an emerald clear, And the wind as a fern-flower is dark and cool. Oh, if you want me, call for me here And I shall come to you swift as a wing Swift as a shadow over the pool. Betrothal How will you want to find me when you come, Dear one? (Pride, pride! How dare you ask him that? Are you not as you are the sweet, sweet sum Of all his dreaming? and if not, then what? Ah me!) But I shall be as bright as honey And cool upon your lips as porcelain. . . . For old wives tell that maids in matrimony Must be like apples hanging in the rain. Or would you have me deaf to them, my dear? For something tells me that I shall not hear The simmer of their counsel when the near Strange warmth of you again shall overbear And quicken all my blood. Oh, let me wear, Old wives or none, a red rose in my hair! “This I Know” This I know, dear, my dear, I’d prefer to doubt you, Than to never have you near, Than to live without you, Than to know a lonely place Where you’d no more be going, With the evening on your face And a pale star showing, Than to run to meet you there My heart away before me, And not to find you anywhere, And a pale star o’er me. The Witch When you were poor I was a witch And stirred my kettle And made you rich. Now I have given You all my gold. The night is dark My broom is cold. Now you are King Why can’t you carry Me in your pocket Like a fairy? Fool’s Song Rain and rill and brown cocoon And little wind a-blowing. I’ll tell what I know as soon As I’ll tell what I’m knowing. Green upon a little hill And crocus buds a-swelling. I’ll not tell what I know until There’s no more need of telling. Bees and purple irises And honey for a season. Now I have your lips to kiss With not another reason. Underfoot Too close these western shores are, each to each, And walled in smug detachment from the sea; Too narrow now for the screaming eagle’s reach, Too narrow for the reach of the redwood tree. To lie upon the salt-inwoven sedge Along the beach is but to idly note The sandpiper less slender than the edge Of sand begrudged him by a man-made boat. The orchis quails, the pale syringa dies, The dog-wood globes no longer whiten, so Too-skilled are these professing, avid eyes And sheltered hands that teach them how to grow. Surely as the gold threads from the weave Of long dear-treasured tapestry, is drawn The breath of beauty, and with none to grieve Where even grief like some used ghost is gone. Away to a wild, unblemished place, my soul, Delicate with fawns and lancing ferns, And cypress mystic with an untaught dole Where mad in fruit the pomegranate burns. Perchance upon some blue Caucasian hill Sweet cyclamen and bitter aloes root May slake the thirst that rose and daffodil Have risen and died in vain for, underfoot. In Sorcery While I know that somewhere This little wind that sighs Will pass on and find you With the twilight in your eyes, I shall dwell enchanted In a fabled land And your remembered kiss will gleam Like a ring upon my hand. And I shall dance in silent shoes All dyed with cinnibar, Like a little flame against the sun Where birds and singing are. And through the wood of Sorcery Where waxen thorn-trees shine, I’ll ride a fawn with golden eyes Like ewers of wild wine. Morning shall be at my lips, A silver flute, no less; On the hilltop silver sheep, And a silver shepherdess. When I shall know that somewhere This little wind that sighs Will make a sound of dust within Your remembered eyes, I shall grow dim in Sorcery And make no song nor sound, Fading like the shadow Of a cloud along the ground. So I Say Down into the unrevealed land Of my long cherished sorrow Shall I unfaltering go. Well I know the way: On either hand Unvoiced and still of wing, Snared in nets of shade, The wild and glistening Birds of ecstasy complain and fade. Down such caverns shall I go That, returning, none will know The witch-pale face, the lips of me Sealed and cold as the frost-bound leaf Of the wintry wormwood tree, Sealed in a song of toneless grief. So I say. And yet I sing To a fairy harp, and faintly hear The sunlit hoofs, a-dancing near, And like the foam-thin seashell dare Not tell the truer, darker thing, Nor whisper of it anywhere. THE END TRANSCRIBER NOTES Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. A cover has been created for this ebook. [The end of _A Far Land_ by Martha Ostenso]