Poems (Tree)/I Have No Other Friend but Thee
I
IHAVE no other friend but thee,But while I tell thee all my thoughtThine ears are buzzing with gossip of dreams,Soothsayings and sighs, and little things—How canst thou listen to me?
II
Perchance I roamed under the old moon too long,And when my cheek grew paleI laid it against thine to feel the blood beat backResponsive in the double rose of joy—But I feel thee shifting away into lonelinessWhere the ghost moon glides between us. . . .
III
When at a masqueradeI meet thee in the shrill indifferent throng,Our faces painted each in some disguiseOf varnished revelry;I whisper in thine earFables, and flatteries, and inconsequent tales,Trivial as the dust that whirls about our feet,And shower the multicoloured streamers highWhere Folly is king of midnight—Suddenly dost thou snatch thy mask aside,And thy still face looks out,Weary and overwiseWhere the mad pretence avails not.
IV
Long ago we walked together in a garden;It was evening and the leaves fell down; Silently we passed over the dead, the fallen,Over flowers and branches that were withered there—And the air was weary with the scent of other days,A fragrance faint and pensive.The sighing of the leaves beneath our feetWere as old dreams retold,Stirred from the golden quilt of memory,And farewells rang their whispering bells,Tolling the days away.But peace lay folded between our handsAs we thought of the vanishing yearsAnd of love dying in the arms of love.
V
Sometimes I look into the glassAnd see my face without the conquering lightThat gave me glamour when I gave thee love.Fain would I bathe in the fountains of beauty,To glitter with the crystals of her sparkling desire,And touch with my feet the floors of a bright paven Hell,And rear my head among the lilies of Heaven.I would be for theeAs a ring of white flowers on the sward,As a red fire playing to thy breath,As a flock of kingfishersSurprised from the dark fringe of rushes!Remember only this,My will toward all loveliness, and lookDeep in thyself for my reflected soul.
VI
Be perfect—for I love thee more in thoughtThan thou canst reach in every trivial day.Since days are as the flowers on a wreath That wither while we bind them each to each.Only the soul is timeless, and no round of daysCan wall it in a little space of ground.Sometimes our minds are cheated by the clockAnd crave love, wisdom, joy within an hour,But the patient spirit standsWaiting the last fulfilment.Around thy soul my thoughts are as garlandsOr as an endless rosary.Be perfect! lest my psalm should falterAnd my hands part from the unriveted faithWith Amen scarcely sighed.
1917