Infinities away already
are your very slender body
and the tremendous dark of your eyes
where once beyond the laughingness of childhood,
came a breath of jessamine prophetic of summer,
a sudden flutter of yellow butterflies
above dark pools.
Shall I take down my books
and weave from that glance a romance
and build tinsel thrones for you
out of old poets' fancies?
Shall I fashion a temple about you
where to burn out my life like frankincense
till you tower dark behind the sultry veil
huge as Isis?
Or shall I go back to childhood
remembering butterflies in sunny fields
to cower with you when the chilling shadow fleets
across the friendly sun?
Bordeaux
XXVII
And neither did Beatrice and Dante ...
But Beatrice they say
was a convention.
November, 1916——February, 1917.