from Herb Woman and Other Poems
by Eleanor C. Koenig
(New York: Harold Vinal, 1926)
RELEASE
OH, let me run with autumn winds
That pass through reeds and rushes
Let me shriek with evening gales
In ragged currant bushes.
Let me tear through aspen trees,
Roar on naked beaches,
Let me howl through bending oaks
In haunted woodland reaches.
I tell you, this, the grief I hold
Is no considerate sorrow;
This is the King of Pain who must
A fitting garment borrow.
MIDDLE AGE GARDEN
IN my middle years
I shall ·have, for content,
An old-fashioned garden,
With herbs and flowers blent.
Basil, blessed thistle,
Fennel, I shall grow;
Rosemary, mint, spikenard;
Tansy, row on row.
Every afternoon
I shall sit against a tree,
And smell of the herbs
Till dreams come to me.
And there shall be roses,
Pink, red and white—
Not forgetting roses
For my delight!
HERB WOMAN
ROOTS and herbs she gathers,
Morning, night and noon,
By the rising dog-star,
Underneath the moon.
In her fragrant kitchen
While the lost world sleeps,
Gentle midnight priestess,
She mixes and steeps.
Shakes the leafy brethren,
Sorts and scrapes with skill,
On her vibrant fingers
Wood and field and hill—
Poppy leaves and wormwood,
Peony petals spilt,
Dreamy hop flowers added,
For a headache quilt.
Hands only made for healing,
Nostrils made for smell,
Forehead wide and yearning,
Eyes fixed in a spell.
With the loose prescriptions
Floating through her head,
Such are prayers she mutters
Ere she goes to bed:
“Vervain for the fever,
Basil to bring joy,
And a dose of moonwort
For the poor daft boy.”
BOCCACCIO’S FRANCESCA
FRANCESCA, down the centuries I hear
The mocking intonation of your laugh,
As with a merry gesture, light as chaff,
You banish the luckless two who hold you dear;
One who has dared the secrets of the grave,
The other, doughtily, to bring him forth,
Surely, Francesca, each has proved his worth,
Choose blindfolded–no?–then what do you crave?
I wonder now if, in the years to come,
Perhaps indeed when married to a boor,
Old memories arose and found you dumb,
Grieving the wisdom banished from your door;
Or, did you only toss your head and say:
“Oh, after all, that is. a woman’s way.”
A DARK DAY
THE trees stand still above the snow,
Mute effigies of sorrow—
A gloomy day; but the paper says
The sun will shine tomorrow.
The clock now points to half-past six
It’s well the day is ended.—
The trees loom in the deepening dusk
Like truths half comprehended.
COME IN FROM THE RAIN
COME in from the rain, the night is black,
Your shoes are wet, there’s no coat on your back;
Come in from the rain.
The wind in the bushes says strange, sad things;
Night is a creature with terrible wings;
Come in from the rain.
You are poor and friendless and tired and old,
Your heart is heavy, your bones are cold;
Come in from the rain.
A chair by the fire and the shoes from your feet,
A drink to warm and a bite to eat;
Come in from the rain.
A chair and maybe a story to tell,
For we are lonely and listen well.
Come in from the rain.
Out of the darkness, shut the door ;
Yes, we are poor, but there’s room for more;
Come in from the rain.
OF SPIRIT
WHO loves for nearness and for
For features’ form or grace,
Loves with a proper worldly love,
Secure and commonplace.
But who has felt a spirit surge
Across a great dark way—
Who feels a mighty love like this
Must kneel him down to pray.
SECOND MARRIAGE
THERE’S more than one I know were glad
When death came stealing to the door
To say good riddance in their minds
To angry looks and words,—and more.
And not like one that loved too well
For taking ways and curly hair,
Then saw Death laugh at joy like this
And—married for a home and care.
And found that many a widow, too,
Works hard all day to keep herself
To sit alone in peace at night
And have a picture on the shelf.
YOU, GOD
I SOMETIMES have forgot to pray
But, God, I was not far away,
For daily wonder in my soul
Paid voiceless homage as Your dole,
When marvelling that I should see
The things that You, God, made for me:
A pigeon circling in its flight,
Lithe birches bending green and white,
Pale sunlight filtered in a wood,
Snow-covered ground where flowers have stood,
And flowers, in their sweet summer dress,
And song birds, in their happiness—
Why, even Your minutest thing,
An ant, has caused my heart to sing!
No day so dark but brought to me
A bit of sky, a bit of tree.
So God, if I forgot to pray,
I really was not far away—
Oh, God, that I should come to know
The joy of Your creation so!
I’VE HAD MY DREAMS
I’VE had my dreams, and this is one:
That we should read Endymion;
With trees for company—sweet and still
Upon a hidden, dream-drenched hill.
The time: a perfect summer day,
And things and people far away.
With only friendly trees to know
That we could love a poet so.
To revel in the beauty wrought—
The perfect utterance of a thought.
The meaning of a phrase to con;
Its very joy to dwell upon;
With trees for company—sweet and still,
Upon a hidden, dream-drenched hill—
And, though the world is strange to me
And things are not as they might be,
I’ve had my dreams and this is one:
That we should read Endymion.
CELTIC
I HOLD such sadness in my breast
As March’s misery
And the utter loneliness
Of a November tree.
I hold such gladness in my breast
As nothings lovers talk
And a clump of rain-washed violets
Beside an alien walk.
GIFT
GOD proffered a measure
To comfort me by,
I rock with the tree-tops,
I change with the sky.
I wear like a sovereign
The night’s jewelled air,
I fling like a wanton
The wind’s rumpled hair.
A LADY PASSES
THE air was charged with shifting spells,
So lightly, lightly, she drew near;
The air was full of golden bells
That tinkled on my listening ear.
Some inner harmony I found—
So lightly, lightly, did she pass,
Her footsteps were the soundless sound
Of falling petals on the grass.
BRIDAL
THEY laid him in the solemn earth,
“How sad,” the townsfolk said,
“The sea should claim a gay young lad,
Who in a week would wed.”
Silenced, as with impatient heart,
He sped the laggard hours—
‘Twas summer, on his grave they placed
The season’s wealth of flowers.
His stricken love wept properly,
The tears coursed down her face,
But secretly she thought of one
Who soon would take his place.
His mother’s grief was pitiful,
Stormy, unreconciled,
And—in a house, with shutters drawn,
Another woman smiled.
With eyes that shone like misty stars,
She dressed herself with care,
And pinned a sweet white rose among
The tendrils of her hair.
When night had come she took a road
That few: at nightfall tread—
The lonely road that carries to
The province of the dead,
And when the morn, a pendant pearl
Against the darkness hung,
She hurried back, and to her gown
The scent of flowers clung.
The safety of her door she reached
Just ere the break of light,
No gossip knew the night before
Had been her bridal night.
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