The Pot of Earth/The Carrion Spring
PART THREE
The Carrion Spring
The flowers of the sea are brief,
Lost flowers of the sea,
Salt petal, bitter leaf,
The fruitless tree—
The flowers of the sea are blown
Dead, they blossom in death:
The sea furrows are sown
With a cold breath.
I heard in my heart all night
The sea crying, Come home,
Come home. I thought of the white
Cold flowers of foam.
In March, when the snow melted, he was born.
She lay quiet in the bed. She lay still,
Dying.
Under the iron rumble
Of the streets she heard the rolling
Boulders that the flood tides tumble
Climbing sea by sea the shoaling
Ledges,—she could hear the tolling
Sea.
She lay alone there.
In the morning
They came and went about her,
Moving through the room. She asked them
Whispering. They told her,
He is here. She said, Who is it,
Who is it that is born, that is here?
She said, Do you not know him?
Have you seen the green blades gathered?
Have you seen the shallow grain?
Do you know,—do you not know him?
Laugh, she said, I am delivered,
I am free, I am no longer
Burdened. I have borne the summer
Dead, the corn dead, the living
Dead. I am delivered.
He has left me now. I lie here
Empty, gleaned, a reaped meadow,
Fearing the rain no more, not fearing
Spring nor the flood tides overflowing
Earth with their generative waters—
Let me sleep, let me be quiet.
I can see the dark sail going
On and on, the river flowing
Red with the melting of the snow:
What is this thing we know?—
Under the iron street the crying
Voices of the sea. Come home,
Come to your house. Come home.
She heard
A slow crying in the sea, Come home,
Come to your house—
Go secretly and put me in the ground—
Go before the moon uncovers,
Go where now no night wind hovers,
Say no word above me, make no sound.
Heap only on my buried bones
Cold sand and naked stones
And come away and leave unmarked the mound.
Let not those silent hunters hear you pass:
Let not the trees know, nor the thirsty grass,
Nor secret rain
To breed from me some living thing again,
But only earth—
For fear my body should be drowned
In her deep silences and never found.
The slow spring blossomed again, a cold
Bubbling of the corrupted pool, a frothy
Thickening, a ferment of soft green
Bubbling—
Who knows how deep the roots drink?
They drink deep.
And you, what do you hope?
What do you believe, walking
Alone in an old garden, staring down
Beneath the shallow surface of the grass,
The floating green? What do you say you are?
And what was she that you remember, staring
Down through the pale grass, what was she?
And what is this that grows in an old garden?
Listen, I will interpret to you. Look, now,
I will discover you a thing hidden,
A secret thing. Come, I will conduct you
By seven doors into a closed tomb.
I will show you the mystery of mysteries.
I will show you the body of the dead god bringing forth
The corn. I will show you the reaped ear
Sprouting.
Are you contented? Are you answered?
Come.
I will show you chestnut branches budding
Beyond a dusty pane and a little grass
Green in a window-box and silence stirred,
Settling and stirred and settling in an empty room—