Poems (Forrest)/The trespasser
THE TRESPASSER
Was there nobody there when the moon was full? It might have been only a crackling leaf, Or the petal blown from a blossom sheaf,Or the snap of a burst toadstool— Yet in humble flower and haughty weeds I heard the call of a pipe of reeds!
A minor lilt to the blare of day The garden at night held its usual sound, The suspiration of sweating groundWould explain it all away. . . But not the flicker of flaming eyes Or the vines a-trail from the shaggy thighs!
Oh, yes, we can prove so much indeed! Did the rosy "Pride of India" move, Looping the trellis close as love,With its lavish, jungle weed, Some crawling snail we should find no doubt Or a sportive spider swinging out!
We could cry it was wind of dawn, The moan of dreams that the wakeful hear: But a rose leaned down to the pointed earOf a crafty, peering faun— And it was never a dawn bird's throat That gave the breath for that trickling note!
Was nobody there when the moon was full? The dovecote sheltered a grey quartette, But they slept, lid-blind, to the moonbeams' fret,Nor guessed at the silver pull That drew me out of a restless bed To lurk in a coppice heart instead!
The rose clung shuddering to her stem, Fluttered the leaves on her dainty tree, As she sobbed, "He is here to rifle me,"'Neath her dewdrop diadem. And yet when the thin faun lips drew near I heard her coo to his furtive ear!
Was nobody there through the unmarked hours? A quince rod bent in the grove beyond, A shadow passed o'er the gleaming pondOf a head enwreathed in flowers, And this morning, deep in the moss-mat's woof, I found the print of a blunted hoof!
And the rose—no more will her red heart stir, She is bruised and wilted and spent and torn As though the burden of lust was borneAnd the soul kissed out of her. But she did not turn from me when I came, She seemed too weary to think of shame.
Was there nobody there when the moon was full? It might have been only a widening leaf 'Where an opening moon-flower sighed reliefOr the puff of a dried toadstool . . . Yet all day one voice in the leaf-choir leads, The echo left by a pipe of reeds!