Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BONNYBELL: THE GRAY SPHEX, by EDGAR LEE MASTERS Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Bonnybell comes to the room of her lover Last Line: She wounds in the war. Subject(s): War; Women - Heroes | ||||||||
Bonnybell comes to the room of her lover, Paul, for the farewell hour. O Bonnybell so frail, so worn! Bonnybell slips on a negligee of sky-blue silk, Shakes out the ringlets of her seal-brown hair And like a flower whose scent escapes The leaves of a book, She lies between the exquisite linen That glides like satin under her rosy feet, Drawn up and down In the restlessness of fatigue. And her hair is spread like a fan Over the snow of the pillow -- Bonnybell will sleep. For the heat of the city stifles one, And saps one's strength. And Bonnybell has drilled, And Bonnybell has sung, And Bonnybell has been shoed and costumed, And Bonnybell has shopped, And bought the silver tags For her wrist and neck, that in case her body Floats pied and swollen at sea Her name may be known, And her body rescued from the water, As one who gave her life to the war . . . And Bonnybell says in a weary voice, Turning her face to the wall: Dear, I must sleep. But while I am sleeping, read your letters Written at first, Which show how our love began In lightness, delicate fellowship. You will find them there in my week-end bag. For now I must sleep for an hour. Then I will wake and put my arms Around you dear, My dearest love. Bonnybell grows silent. And her bosom rises and falls. And a breeze from over the towers of the city Stirs her hair out-spread on the pillow. And Paul tip-toes to the dresser to find The letters. And sees in the bag beside the letters Bonnybell's boudoir cap, And Bonnybell's little slippers, And her powder box of cloisonne And sticks of rouge for the lips, And a piece of alum, And a diary. Then Paul returns to the edge of the bed And reads the letters, Looking from time to time at Bonnybell, Who has not stirred, Whose bosom rises and falls. And he studies her piquant little face With its square prognathous jaw; The little snub nose that twists to the right of the face Like the root of a flower. And the tips of her ears made bare for the time By the out-spread hair on the pillow -- Almost Darwinian ears, he shudders to think, No roll at the top, thinned out at the top Like a fox's or a collie's. But, oh, the brow of Bonnybell, So full, so rich, so high, Behind which are fancy And insight, taste, the gifts of memory. But, oh, the eyes of Bonnybell, Closed now in sleep, So sad, so child-like, tender, Like a blue-bell caught under the fringe of a fern Wind-blown and wet with rain. And as Paul reads the letters he thinks Of all that Bonnybell has said: I go to the war, she had said, To serve the country, to give my life For the cause of Freedom, Beauty, Truth, To nurse the men who avenge with arms The desolation of Belgium, The desecration of France, The ruin of art, cathedrals, temples, Amiens, Rheims! My life has been one drawn-out pain -- Only pain from my childhood, dear -- It were better I were swept under In the great cause that would put down The barbaric hands that soil or ruin Marbles, canvases, cathedrals, And sacred shrines. My father is a beast, And my mother a humbled, whipped-out thing. And I was driven out in the world To earn my bread from the first. And now, after years, I find you, dear. I am on the heights at last for your love, In the light of a deathless sun by day, And under the planets of faith and love By night, my own, my love, my consummation. And I go to the war for you, -- You who are Truth and Beauty. You are giving me to the war, I am your gift to the war. I go to the war to grow through service, And to come back worthy of you. I shall enrich my mind, And purify my spirit, And care for my body, Then bring these gifts to you again, Made richer, more beautiful. But while I am in the war, sustain me, For I can endure, or suffer even death If you sustain me with your love. But if you would break me, dear, If you would strike me down in the service, Only withdraw your love from me. So for the cause and our love Write me daily letters. Pour out your spirit to me That through your spirit I may serve The cause of our country in the war. And, dear, be true to me, lest you break My heart, dear one. And wait for my return, steadfast and true, Though it be a year, two years. I am afraid when I think How Gyp in Galsworthy's "Beyond" Saw the kiss of her betrayal bestowed On fresher lips. I have heard you are a man who changes, Deserts, betrays. And they tell me you will consume me, Then blow me away like a cinder. And I shudder to think when I am gone You will turn to another. How can it be, since through you, dear, I have learned the ritual of love, And knew it not save through you, That you would teach another, or share The ritual with her? No, dear, it must not be. For I shall think of you by day, Day by day. And dream of you by night, Night by night. And sleep beneath the blankets you gave me, And keep your picture under my pillow, So blest for your love. And save the money you gave me, And save the money you send me For our child to be when I return, Our child to be born, when I return. So that you and I shall not go down To the silence of those unborn. And I shall be faithful and true to you In word, in deed, not knowing change With the hour, or mood, As I have been faithful and true from the first. And keep our secret from all ears, Lest it be soiled by idle words. Thus I go to the war for you. And Paul, who has drawn from memory The voice of Bonnybell in these words, As he reads the letters, looks at her And shakes his head with a sigh: Be faithless to you, Bonnybell, Betray you, Bonnybell? I will die ere I do it, Bonnybell! Fail to sustain you, Bonnybell With love and letters and constant thought! Though it drain my spirit dry, While the breath is in me, Bonnybell, My soul is yours. And he bends above her and kisses her. Then kneels by the bed and prays for her. Then rises and goes to the dresser And tosses the letters into the bag. But as he tosses the letters in His eye rests on the diary. What has Bonnybell written, he wonders, Of their great delights, their meetings, From the very first time When she came like a bride in virginal beauty To this hour of love and peace? So he takes the diary out, Clinking the alum against the cloisonne box Of powder or rouge, Returns to the edge of the bed And turns the diary's pages. And the wonder enters his thought What did Bonnybell write in her diary Of the primal bliss between them. So he turns to the date. . . . What is the matter, Paul? Is this death at last? Is it death? Your heart has stopped. Your breath is gone. You are turned to stone. Your hair stands up. Perhaps it is turning white. Prickles run over you, A weakness goes through you. Is it paralysis, perhaps? You cannot rise, or move, The diary shakes in your hand. Fix your eye on the entry in Bonnybell's hand: "Paul, December 10th, the Imperial, 1520 +" Don't look at the entries a week before, And later a week, Where you find the entries in Bonnybell's hand: "H. the Metropole 51 -- I +" You will die, poor Paul, if you sit and stare And think that three days after the day You gave your Bonnybell cloaks and blankets For her comfort in the war She betrayed you, even while she pleaded with you: Be true to me, do not betray me, You can break my heart. Now what shall he do? For the dastard Germans wrecked the beauty of Rheims, And Bonnybell has wrecked the beauty of love, And soiled with nameless foulness And elaborate hypocrisy Sacred images and rituals, Virtues, faiths, and truths. And she is going to nurse the men Who will vanquish the Germans. But what shall be done to her? He looks at her slender neck -- How easy to strangle her. He looks at her face -- How easy to beat and mar Her little face. How easy to kill her, yet what folly To hang for killing a leman whose record Lies in this book before him, -- This book of a year! He smiled at himself and shook his shoulders And the words went through his brain: Think of me hourly, write me daily, Give me your love, your faith, That I may be sustained In the great cause of the war To which you are giving me. Be true to me Till I return. Then Bonnybell wakes And sees Paul with her diary. She springs like a panther upon him And seizes the diary. And cries, "Now I must give you up." But he pushes her down on the bed. And she falls and hides her face in the sheets, And confesses without a tear or a sigh Her varied lusts. Then he pulls her up, Lifts up her hair from her little fox ears, Looks through the pin-head pupils of her eyes And the matted rays of their iris, And sees her mouth so red and puffed, Feverish, insatiable; And sees before him all in all An elemental imp, a soul Malevolent, half-formed, A succubus! There's a wasp, said Paul to Bonnybell, That stings the cricket in the breast, One, two, three, -- Where the ganglia are in the breast, Then lays three eggs where the ganglia are, -- One, two, three. But the cricket does not die. The cricket lives and keeps its flesh Fresh for the larvae, Fresh for the new hatched worms Which eat the breast of the cricket out, While the cricket, yet alive, keeps waving Its helpless legs, antennae. Little gray sphex, you would devour With the worms of regret, defeated love And remorse, The exhausted soul of me. But your sting has scarcely poison enough, My little gray sphex! I have given my all to the war through you; That good you have done. Now I rise and shake your eggs from me, I rise and leave you and cleanse my soul, And leave some brute of a man to kill you Somewhere in France. 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