Poems (Forrest)/Kismet

by Mabel Forrest

KISMET

Centuries gone, on a vine-set mountain Where the soil was rich from the lava flow,Near a city built on the fiery fountain That belched red death in the Long Ago,Fate scrawled on your horoscope a sign:The flowers you planted should all be mine!

On the edge of the desert, where palm-trees hung, And the dromedaries with silver bellsChimed harmony to the Arab tongue, By a flat-roofed dwelling and shallow wells,You made a pleasance of fig and date,And you placed Another inside the gate. . .

But she died with the lamp of the bridal eve. A shadow out of the desert came;How long did your heart for her child-heart grieve? I was star—and blossom—and wind—and flame,Ere the sheep ran home to the shepherd's pipeEre the dates you gathered for her were ripe.

I set mare's milk in the gourd for you, I ground the grain, and I dried the fig,The moon was a wisp on the starry blue And you wedded me when the moon was bigCopper and round as a warrior's shield,And you laughed to grip me—and I, to yield—

You made a garden in Old Japan Dwarf cedar-trees, and a cherry bloom,With a quaint house built on the Willow plan And a lacquer screen in a paper room,And a grasshopper in a wicker cage,And a bloss'ming plum in your hermitage.

You were vowed to Silence, to Fast, to Prayer, A holy man, and no woman's voiceDare pierce your vows . . . but I found you there, A barren waste were a wiser choice!Where no cedar bloomed and no plum could grow,For the gods of the Past had willed it so!

And you smote me twice with a driving blade, And you cursed the woman who broke your hour,How could I help it? The spell was made Ere ever the lotus learned to flower!That, wheresoever the land might be,You could sow no seed that was not for me!

A little back from the country road, In a prim white fence you have made your home,But you feel the prick of the centuries' goad And are restless, waiting till I shall come;While here and there for my marriage dower,You trim a bud—and you tend a flower—

And wonder why you are ill at ease, Your household jest at your "waste of time,"When you pace alone under dreaming trees, That whisper secrets of many a climeOf green oasis, of bridged lagoons,Of the slow, gold essence of honeymoons. . .

When you pruned the trees where the boughs arch over The buffalo grasses on moony nights,When you trained the jasmines, like a lover To feed your soul with their fragrant whites,How could you guess that it was for meYou trailed the vine, and you clipt the tree?

When you watered the grass on the oval patch And grooved the steps in the terraced green,Did you hear no lift of the fastened latch? Did nothing pass by the paw-paw's screenTo tell you that you must toil in vainTill our cycle brought me to you again?

Because of a night in Old Japan When my life went out on your bright red blade,Because you have thwarted the Great God's plan, Because of a game you have not played,In the hush of the moonlit night you wakeAnd break your heart for a woman's sake. . .

The Nearest to you are still estranged, The ties you make, they can never bind,Oh, think of the scented ways we ranged, When the moon was full and the gods were kind!Wistaria blossoms that wreathed the gate,Yet . . . I have forgiven . . . and I can wait . . .Till the gods have said that the blade is clean, That Love Eternal defies the stain,Till my hands find yours with no hands between, And the broken circle is whole again;With brave boughs fended, with roses deep,In our last green garden we two shall sleep! . .