I I wandered through a house of many rooms. It grew darker and darker, Until, at last, I could only find my way By passing my fingers along the wall. Suddenly my hand shot through an open window, And the thorn of a rose I could not see Pricked it so sharply That I cried aloud. II I dug a grave under an oak-tree. With infinite care, I stamped my spade Into the heavy grass. The sod sucked it, And I drew it out with effort, Watching the steel run liquid in the moonlight As it came clear. I stooped, and dug, and never turned, For behind me, On the dried leaves, My own face lay like a white pebble, Waiting. III I gambled with a silver money. The dried seed-vessels of "honesty" Were stacked in front of me. Dry, white years slipping through my fingers One by one. One by one, gathered by the Croupier. Faites vos jeux, Messieurs. I staked on the red, And the black won. Dry years, Dead years; But I had a system, I always staked on the red. IV I painted the leaves of bushes red And shouted: "Fire! Fire!" But the neighbors only laughed. We cannot warm our hands at them, they said. Then they cut down my bushes, And made a bonfire, And danced about it. But I covered my face and wept, For ashes are not beautiful Even in the dawn. V I followed a procession of singing girls Who danced to the glitter of tambourines. Where the street turned at a lighted corner, I caught the purple dress of one of the dancers, But, as I grasped it, it tore, And the purple dye ran from it Like blood Upon the ground. VI I wished to post a letter, But although I paid much, Still the letter was overweight. What is in this package? said the clerk, It is very heavy. Yes, I said, And yet it is only a dried fruit. VII I had made a kite, On it I had pasted golden stars And white torches, And the tail was spotted scarlet like a tiger-lily, And very long. I flew my kite, And my soul was contented Watching it flash against the concave of the sky. My friends pointed at the clouds; They begged me to take in my kite. But I was happy Seeing the mirror shock of it Against the black clouds. Then the lightning came And struck the kite. It puffed-blazed-fell. But still I walked on, In the drowning rain, Slowly winding up the string. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A MODEST WIT by SELLECK OSBORNE JAPANESE MAPLES by JENNIE SCOTT ARNOLD RUINED CHURCH by F. W. BATESON SONNET (3) by JOACHIM DU BELLAY LIFE AND DEATH by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE SONNETS FOR NEW YORK CITY: 4. THE FOUNTAIN OF LIFE by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH EPITAPH ON MR. TURNER OF ST. MARY-HALL by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |