The Earth Turns South/The Poem

by Clement Richardson Wood

THE POEM

I.
I lift my gaze from one poet's book,
Archaic, pallid, underwise,
Then stop my strained and fretful look—
Why, here's a poem before my eyes!

Not in the books, whose marshaled rows
Wait for my seeking, to disclose
Their thin and varied thus-and-soes;

Not in the iris flower of June,
That proudly spills its purple boon,
A wordless, soundless, fragrant tune;

Not in the waiting ivory keys,
Nor the room's pleasant harmonies,
Sweet with disheveled memories,—

My restless eyes achieve their rest,
Break to a smile, and ponder, where,
With face at peace, and moveless breast,
My tired young wife lies sleeping there.

II.
Peace on her face, peace in this room—
Oh, it is far to the flaring gloom
Where war's strange fiery flowers bloom.

Immobile breast, and moveless air—
Oh, it is far to red roads where
Torn bodies twitch, and still eyes stare.

Oh, can there be so mad a place,
Where writhes a self-destructive race? . . .
Immobile breast, peace in her face.

III.
Her gentle breathing scarce unfurls
The tiniest of her sleeping curls.
The eyes are closed, the soul withdrawn,
The wax cheeks show a doubtful flush
As when the East begins to dawn;
As quiet is her couch's hush.
One hand is cupped beneath her brow,
The other lies with fingers still
Upon the coverlet; and now
She almost smiles, as some deep thrill,
Dream-woven, has its vagrant will.

IV.
Where do you wander
Out in your dreams?
What gay adventures,
What somber journeys,
What wings upbear you
As you accomplish
All your hid longings?

Do you climb lonely
Sky-secret mountains?
Do you grope blindly,
Leaden, foot-hindered,
Through threatening caverns?

Do you face dangers,
Stormy gray sea-ways,
Night-haunted sorrows?
And am I with you,
I, the beloved?
Or do you fly me,
Me, a dream-enemy?

May you tread safely,
In your far dreaming,
Gaining the goals!

V.
Ah, you seem so sound asleep!
Body laved in stillness deep,
Soul, whose silent slumbers keep

Far away the restlessness
Of the stupid world's distress,
Plastic to the dream's caress.

And I am so far away,
Here, where my quick fancies play
With your quiet self today!

Why seek within a printed place,
When in her sleeping beauty lies,
With moveless breast and peaceful face,
A poem before my eyes?