For if it were not for the chains I bear I should be unaware Of the frail splendour of a peacock pacing slow, Rich, opalescent dyes, Blue, green, bronze-burnished, lustrous argent eyes— A fanfarade Of lapis, azure, emerald and jade— A glory of spread plumes where shattered rainbows played.
And never should I know The sound of running water soft and low, The hushed grey music of a summer rain, A plain song cadence, beautiful and strange, Old wistful chants scarred with lost Eden’s pain.
Nor should I mark the rough austerity Of surf, the rude caress of waves that buffet me. Or find delight In the cool touch of smoothéd ivory.
And always I should lack The scent of burning leaves, the poignant smack Of box; or heliotrope in the hot sun; Primroses opening their pale stars one by one.
Then, too, I should forego the savour of fresh bread. Clear-dripping honey thick with the perfume Of the red clover bloom. And never should I cool my parchéd mouth With luscious apricots, warm, tinctured of the South.
God, when my body must Return to dust, O let me be Not utterly set free From these my friendly bonds! O let me use them there, as here, for Thee With deeper rapture, keener ecstasy.
AFTERWARD
NOW I remember very plain: A sumac leaf was red, The bloom of grape was on the hills, The river was a twisted thread.