The Black Christ & Other Poems/Two Poets
Two Poets
1
THE love-mad lark you sing of swooned," they said,"And speared his bosom on a thorn of lastYear's rose; cease playing Orpheus; no blastYou blow can raise Eurydice once dead.Our ears are cloyed with songs our fathers heardOf how your lady's face and form were fair;Put by your fluting; swell a martial air,And spur us on with some prophetic word."
So, wearying, he changed his tune, and wonThe praise of little men (who needed none) . . .But oh to see him smile as when dawn blewA trumpet only he could hear, and dewHe could not brush away besieged his eyesAt sight of gulls departing from his skies.
2
HOW could a woman love him; love, or wed?"And thinking only of his tuneless faceAnd arms that held no hint of skill or grace,They shook a slow, commiserative headTo see him amble by; but still they fedTheir wilting hearts on his, were fired to raceOnce more, and panting at life's deadly pace,They drank as wine the blood-in-song he shed.
Yet in the dream-walled room where last he lay,Soft garments gathered dust all night and day,As women whom he loved and sang of cameTo smooth his brow and wail a secret name.A rose placed in his hand by GuinevereWas drenched with Magdalen's eternal tear.