Rain on a Grave RAIN ON A GRAVE Had shivered with pain She who to shelter Her delicate head Would quicken and quicken If drops chanced to pelt her When thunder-clouds thicken And birds close their bills. Would that I lay there And she were housed here! Or better, together Were folded away there Exposed to one weather We both,-who would stray there When sunny the day there, Or evening was clear At the prime of the year. Soon will be growing Green blades from her mound, And daisies be showing Like stars on the ground, Till she form part of them— All her life's round. Thomas Hardy [1840 1133 T PATTERNS I WALK down the garden paths, Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths. My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whale-bone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade As they please. And I weep; For the lime-tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding. I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid.. With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade. Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid. It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday se'nnight." As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes.. "Any answer, Madam?" said my footman. "No," I told him. I "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. 7 id) No, no answer." And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade. The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one. I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown. Up and down I walked, Up and down. In a month he would have been my husband. In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. I shall go Up and down, In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook, and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for? Amy Lowell [1874¬ WHEN the white flame in us is gone, To crumble in our separate night; When your swift hair is quiet in death, Has stilled the labor of my breath When we are dust, when we are dust!→→ Not dead, not undesirous yet, Still sentient, still unsatisfied, We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit, And dance as dust before the sun, And every mote, on earth or air, Will speed and gleam, down later days, And like a secret pilgrim fare By eager and invisible ways, Nor ever rest, nor ever lie, Till, beyond thinking, out of view, One mote of all the dust that's I Shall meet one atom that was you. Then in some garden hushed from wind, The lovers in the flowers will find A sweet and strange unquiet grow Upon the peace; and, past desiring, And such a radiant ecstasy there, |