Herbs and Apples

Helen Hay Whitney

Herbs and Apples

I give you this, the bitter and the sweet.It holds my heart, can you not hear it beat?So poor a gift to put within your hand—Apples and Herbs!—but you will understand.

TO NEIGHBOR LIFE

Neighbor Life, I love you well,Have you any goods to sell?Let me buy or let me borrowJoy, to tide me o'er the morrow;I will give you in exchangeBaskets full of thoughts that range,Bright utensils of my brain;Coins of feeling you shall gain.All I ask in equal measureIs your store of joy and pleasure.Neighbor Life, I love you well,Have you any joy to sell?

THE UNBURIED

In the wood the dead trees stand,Dead and living, hand to hand,Being Winter, who can tellWhich is sick and which is well?Standing upright, day by daySullenly their hearts decayTill a wise wind lays them low,Prostrate, empty, then we know.So thro' forests of the street,Men stand dead upon their feet,Corpses without epitaph;God withholds his wind of wrath,So we greet them, and they smile,Dead and doomed a weary while,Only sometimes thro' their eyesWe can see the worm that plies.

UP A LITTLE ROAD

Up a little road with the morning in my arms,Drenched with dew and tipsy with the madness of the May,Leafy fingers on my face, I stop not for your charms!Love is waiting round the turn, to be my Love to-day.Shouting as I ride on the springing ringing sod,Ah! my pony knows the goal to which his course is laid,Galloping thro' dawn he knows he bears a little godBacchus-mad with happiness who burns to meet his maid.

ON CEDAR STREET, NEW YORK

I, whose totem was a treeIn the days when earth was new,Joyous leafy ancestryKnown of twilight and of dew,Now within this iron wallSlave of tasks that irk the soul,To my parents send one call—That they give me of their dole.Thro' the roar of alien soundGrimy noise of work-a-day,Secretly a voice, half drowned,Whispers thro' the evening's grey,"Child, we know the path you tread,Ghost and manes, we are true;Cedar spirits, long since dead,Calm and sweet abide with you."

CHE SARÀ SARÀ

Deep as the permanent earth is deep,Fierce as its central fire,Man is his own conclusion,Woman her great desire.

THE DEAD WANTON

She was so light, so frail a thing,She had no wisdom but her face,Which caught men's fancy like the SpringYet held them but a moment's space.She is the youngest of the dead,And so the great lean round her feet;They strive to learn from her fair headWhy far-forgotten life was sweet.For now she knows what Plato knows,And lapped in languor she agreesWith Kant, and as her soft hair blows,Smiling, she flouts Demosthenes.

LEAVEN

Others furnish bread and meat,Busy hucksters on the street,They will give you what you need,All the facts your life to feed.Mine are not these wares of earth,I can give my love but mirth;Let, oh let this part be mine,I would be your salt and wine.

QUAERITUR

What if to-day, when I have made so sureThat love is utterly and wholly mine,What if I found that faith should not endureAnd all my trust in you I should resign;That when I send my thoughts like homing birdsTo your dear heart they find no resting place,But all misunderstood, far, foreign words,They die away like strangers at your face.Love, make me certain, make the circuit true,And when I wonder, give the faith I seekPerfectly trusting, let me end in youHeart against heart, and cheek upon your cheek.

LOVE LAND

Where is El Dorado?Where is bright Cathay?These are lands where we should goTo live and love to-day.Miles of glistening beachesOver all the sun,Tropic, spicy-laden breezeTo lull when day is done.Gypsy lass and loverWith the tides we'd rove;We be natives of no landSave the land of love.

BY THE WESTERN GATE

You and you only!—By the Western gateThat fronts the falling sun I shade my faceAnd watch for you. As one who's lost the raceTries to demand no further gift from FateLest he be hurled more low, so I, who waitAnd want you, ask no pity of your graceOn my defeat, I only long to traceMy lost heart; come to me, my need is great.I see the young men with their crystal eyes,They stand about my door, their hearts, I knowAre breaking in the poppies that they bring.I cannot love them for I am not wise;Ah, come, or else forever let me go,I grow so tired with waiting in the Spring.

FOR MUSIC

The Indian Summer and Love have fled,Oh, red, red lips like a crimson rose,Oh, slender hands with the tips of red,You are lost in the land of Nobody-knows.The sweet breeze blows but it comes not back,The water flows in a silver stream,But never returns on its moon-white track,They are gone, past recall, like a lovely dream.Ah, crimson lips like a tilted flower,Where sweetest honey awaits the bee;Come back, come back for a single hour,Dear Love, my Summer, come back to me.

THE LITTLE GHOST

The little one who loved the sunWho only lived for play,Ah, why was she the one condemnedTo dark and dreams for aye!The perfect perfume of her lifeWas as a rose's breath,And now she treads eternallyThe gusty walks of Death.

MADONNA EVE

From what far spicery derives your hairThe sweet faint fragrance that enslaves my sense?What subtle love trick taught you to be fairWith overt lure and covert reticence?Madonna Eve, you bear upon your breastA hungry emerald like the desiring sea,But warm upon your heart lie pearls of restWhat man could exorcise such witchery?

A CONVERSATION

"Laddy, leave your pedant's task,Rove the world with me.Fields and towns and pretty landsTogether we would see.There be workers everywhere,You would not be missed.Come, ah come, and take for yoursThe mouth you never kissed!""Lady, I am fain for play,So I may not go.Only those who hate to toilThe true enjoyment know;But could you love a larrikinWhose task he'd so resign?""Yes!—I'd love a larrikinIf only he were mine."

BE BRAVE

Be brave about yourselves, you little ones,If in the crazy warp and woof you gleamWith the insistence of determined suns,Shine, being true and modest in your dream.If to the peace of nature you respondDraw from her breast your milk, nor weep the highDuties for lack of which you now despond,Made for historic planets thro' the sky.Knowing yourself a gay and careless weed,Be you courageous in your light despair;Sure that you fill a space of unknown need,Idle and green in the bright coat you wear.Strive to the uttermost to find your worth,Jester or Gypsy, Body, Brain or Soul,Filling with perfect cheer your place on earth,So shall the tapestry of Time be whole.

FORFEITURE

So I have lost you. When the utter acheShall fade at length to mere despondencyWhat will the answer to this problem be?They say that nothing dies, that all we stakeBrings some unknown return; what then shall makeAn adequate exchange for love, to seeYour hand held out in friendship?—as for meThe episode is ended, for life's sake.You want me still for that small joy I gave,But now it ends for you. I am not braveTo love you seared; I have no happy daysTo brood upon at dusk, and so I claim,As all the wager that good fortune pays,Complete obliteration of your name.

THE SEARCH

I tire of the struggle, the search for the ultimate I,There hangs the chalice of sapphire, the infinite sky,Why thro' the space of despair should my spirit be hurledSeeking for truth, when beneath lies this pearl of a world?Seers may direct us thro' pain to discover the soul,Comforting joy may not give us the absolute whole,But if the seers should be wrong, may the truth not be oursThanking dear Life for its light and its beautiful hours?

DUST

Motes of the city dust, could this thing beThat midst your myriad particles for meMight come one atom out of Ispahan,One spiced far memory of caravan.Indrawn upon my breath I'd know an urgeTo dissipate monotony, and purgeThe spirit of its spleen; one with the manWho takes the sun blue air of Ispahan.

NATURE'S CHILD

I had a friend whose soul was very fair,His word was wisdom and his strength was sure;His courage in the ills he had to bearMade others strong and able to endure.I asked no love, no tribute of the senseFor his companionship was recompense.I thought I was beloved, but did not care,He smiled on me as he on others smiled,But one grey day a chill was in the airAnd then to prove that I was Nature's child,He spoke—"I do not love you very much—"And all my friendship shattered at the touch.

VERITATIS

Seated among the shards of PotipharI pondered. Shall we still strive on? forsoothThere is no better, that is good as Best,There is no truer that is true as Truth.

THE PEACOCK

She was more beautiful than tropic night,Luring, compelling as the smile of Fate;Like a poor wastrel, I for her delightSquandered my soul and gained her idle hate.Peacock and paroquet!—at last I knowThe sorriest songsters make the bravest show.

ANTICIPATION

The joy is in the making. While we sowOur dream is wonderful with flowers, we nameThe purlieus of our garden and the aimIs worth the effort, yet we cannot knowThe garden will be just a garden, soThe dream is heaven. This way mothers frameThe child's high dedication to its fame,Repaid for all reality may show.God knows this, so He lets us have the best,The vast anticipation, rugged manJoys in the struggle, triumphs over throes,Vanquished a thousand times he still finds zestIn hope and all his pleasure in a planTo be fulfilled at length in Heaven?—who knows.

THE WAYFARER

Half way to happiness,The whole way back again,Stumbling up the stubborn hillFrom the luring lane.Little sunset House of HeartsStanding all alone,I could come and sweep the leavesFrom your stepping stone.I, and he, could light your firesLaughing at the rainBut O it's far to Happiness,A short way back again.

RENUNCIATION

Not what I ask, but what I do not ask,O my Beloved, proves my love for you.And love can set to love no harder taskThan wistful silence, reticence to sue.I lock my lips, I force a wise contentWith all my being wailing for a sign.Ah, if men knew what woman's smiling meantWhen fierce and hard the heart cries out "He's mine."Mothers of men are we, we barren onesWho say "Be happy, dear, and play your part."What matter how we yearn, you are our sonsWhose every footfall breaks a woman's heart.

ARABESQUE

Gold fish, rose and redAs lady Lillith's hair,Mauve and blue as curling smokeAnd water-sapphires there.At the fountain's brimI built a little dream,As a goldsmith cunninglyI made it flash and gleam.I wrought a maiden shape,I colored it with love,Scarlet mouth and breast of pearlAnd eyes of turtle dove.Thro' hours of moony dark,I woo'd her for my brideBut ah! I could not build her soul,So with the dawn she died.

THE ARCHITECTS

How shall we build it curiously well,Our house to live and love in?—Shall it beOnly significant to you and me,Or shall it be a palace where may dwellThose whom our spirits notice? May we tellAn architect to loose his fancy freeTo toss up towers in soaring ecstasyWith Doric dignity or temple bell?Or shall we build it with our hands, alone,Working together over wood and stoneTo learn an art we never knew, and strive,Patient, to raise with faith and trust and love,Fashioned so cunningly it must survive,A secret cottage in a silent grove?

AMBUSH

Crafty Chieftain, where you lieYou can see the clouds drift by,Waiting in the dusky fernFor your enemy's return.Does the beauty of that placeNever tell you of my face,I, you left, to plot and planFor the ending of a man?—You had better sought my aid,I have met him unafraid,We have wandered all aloneUnderneath a yellow moon.We have found the end of strifeIs the waking up to life—Therefore you, who forced my vow,Take my all of wisdom now.Love has taught me but one truth—Love is merry, love is youth,We be children, he and I.Where is your sagacity?

THE SCALES

I wonder if the store of joyAnd love is limited,And if because my heart is gladSome other heart has bled.Believing this, a balance justOf recompense, I prayThat my beloved gained the joyI did not have to-day.

THE OLD TRAGEDY

Did I allure you?—I only meant to love you,I only meant to be so dear you could not let me go.I held you close against my heart, bending down above you,As mothers brood above their babes, I loved you, loved you so.'T was passion that moved you, called to you and caught you;You never felt my tenderness full launched on your desire.You never knew the friendship and sympathy I brought you.Ah, Mary pity women when their veins are filled with fire.And so I have lost you, I who never won you;You thought me but a siren by your crafty arts beguiled.I hate myself and scorn you for the honor I have done you.I leave you, bitter woman, and I came to you a child.

TABOO

Now am I sacred, for that holy thing,Your touch, has made me as a god; to-dayI am magnificent, I am a kingTo whom my fellow men must cringe and pray.Such is taboo; but when to-morrow comesI may look once upon the sun and you;Then, thro' the dawn, with wailing and sad drumsI pay the utter price.—Such is taboo!

THE RIVALS

Seated in my ingle nookWith Duty by my side,How I strove to see her charmsAnd take her for my bride!"Sweet," I said, "I love you so"—And suddenly I heardThe laughing call of Beauty's voiceAnd all my soul was stirred.Once again she cried my nameAnd gone was every doubt,For who could stay at Duty's sideWhen Beauty calls without?

ALONE

I only wanted room to be alone.I saw the days like little silver moonsCool and restrained shine forth; there were no noonsTo make me glad with glory, to atone.I dreamed of solitude. When one has knownArdent and eager verity, the tunesOf semi-truths are sweet, as subtle runesAttest the bud more dear than flower full blown.To be alone, to watch the dusk and weepFor beauty's face that is so veiled, to knowHow exquisite the earth breaths come and go,To feel my life a silent, empty roomWhere lovely thoughts might take new shape and bloom,—This is the dream that is more dear than sleep.

BENEATH THE MASK

I said that men were cowards,I thought that men were brave,I said that women gained no faithFor all the love they gave.Beneath a mask of scorningI wore a heart of trust,But laughed in all my lovers' eyesAnd vowed their vows were dust.Time showed my words were true ones,My thoughts have proved no test,But still beneath my mask, I sayI know my dreams were best.

THOTH

Hewn from basalt, black as sin,Blind eyes staring, hands on knees,—This is Thoth, who shall surviveAll your fair divinities.Mars and Venus, piping Pan,White Diana, Cupid sweet,—All their beauty, all their pride,Lie like ashes round his feet.Vast and calm and ultimateEre this orb dissolves in spaceLife's last glimpse to man shall beThoth, with his impassive face.

LITTLE DANCER

O little dancer, slim as a new moon,A candle flame blown by the wind—how soonWill all this be forgotten! Do you careThe pagan poppies dying in your hair;Do you despair to think that even as theyYour lovely life will tarnish in a day?How can we keep you, butterfly!—O mustSuch lovely grace resolve itself in dust?We must believe that some day when you lieHid from the lights, beneath the open skyThe trees will bend more perfectly above you,The flowers dance gayer for they'll know and love you,And we will mind a little less the cold,Remembering your grace when we are old.

SIC ITUR AD ASTRA

If it be educational to breastSalt lipped the wave that is the woe of Earth,Who could be called a fool? There is no restFrom sorrow in this island of re-birth.And yet, ringed 'round with shadow as we are,In the penumbra we may all discernGlowing and gay the promise of a starFor the adventurer with faith to yearn.

THE JUDGES

Watch me, eyes of the wind and rain,See if I come to the dusk with stain,Search me, eyes of the soaring sun,See what mischief my hands have done.If there be beauty of word or deed,If there be truth or a scorn of greed,Give me the peace of your dark, sweet hours,Let me be still as your moon and flowers.If there be harm to a heart that trusts,If there be pander to sordid lusts,Curse and condemn me to wide-eyed pain,Judge, and pay me, eyes of the rain.

THE SPRING PLANTING

"What shall we plant for our Summer, my boy,—Seeds of enchantment and seedlings of joy?Brave little cuttings of laughter and light?Then shall our Summer be flowery and bright.""Nay!—You are wrong in your planting," said he,"Have we not grass and the weeds and a tree?Why should we water and weary awayFor sake of a flower that lives but a day!"So she made gardens which he would not dig,Tended her apricot, apple and fig.Then, when one morning he chanced to appear,Sadly he noticed—"No trespassing here."

AN IMPRESSIONIST PICTURE

"How do you do," I said; the yellow coatShe wore was like a golden serpent's skin.I took her white gloved hand, my voice grew thinAs tho' her hand were tight about my throat.The air was green with heat, a flaccid noteI did not fail to see, for heat might winMy cause; her weary soul looked from withinAnd saw the white sails flapping on my boat."Coolness and rest" my eyes were whispering,In Isles where morn grows never afternoon,Where Passion buds forever with the Spring,Nor wanes with shifting tides of sea and moon,But—"How are you?" she said, and that was all,And tho' she smiled, she passed beyond recall.

SUCH HELP FOR SINGING

Such help I have for singing!The little winds a-stirTouch gently on the lisping leavesLike dainty dulcimer.The sights and scents of April—What dreams, what themes they bring—While gaunt crows cry their gasconadeDown all the ways of Spring.Such happy help for singing!And round, below, aboveThe air is thrilling with my joyOf love, love, love.

TEMPUS EDAX RERUM

Upon the silence of my unconcernThe little noise that was your name falls dead.I can remember how your mouth was red,In the lost years, but tho' the senses yearnFor some unguessed desire, they never turnTo that vitality, your face!—We spedSo swiftly thro' our burning hour. We saidDrink deep, 't will never end; too late we learnThat lovely passion's face so soon is grey,That notes too often pressed upon grow dumb,That after the high climax crowns a dayThe dusk seems long and empty. We who comeTo taste again Life's feast, why must it beWe meet such ghosts to chill our revelry?

THE COWARD

Wishful of many honors,He was too lame to climb,And so he sat to wait for Death,Forgetting to be brave.He never saw the windfalls,From off the trees of Time,Drop down in mellow chance to himThe while he digged his grave.

THE LOST ROMANY

The Romany has gone, he has taken all my kisses,I knew I could not keep him, so I laughed and let him go.I do not know the road where his freedom and his bliss is,So take my sober spinning where no gypsy winds can blow.I will find my life serene, I will wed a pleasant lover,I may think no more of perfume and the lingering in the lane;I will rear me sturdy children, and my soul I will discover,For I will not love a Romany in all this world again.

COMPENSATION

If one grew blind thro' gazingWide-eyed upon the sun,What matter when such memoried lightWould last till life were done.If one should die of loving,Divinely wild, and brave,What matter with such dreams to dreamWithin the quiet grave.

UNTAMED

Ah, we weary so with kisses,Weary so with your caresses,As the hooded hawk returningTo its tinkling bells and jesses,So we flutter to the prisonOf your arms, in meek surrender,And we grieve when you are angry,And we smile when you are tender,But our souls, untamed, are soaringWhere no blandishments can teach them,Free our hearts, and free our spirits,Where your hands can never reach them.

TO PERVANCHE

If you were mine—(for all the little flowersThat see you, weary of their innocence)—If prayers that have been pale with penitenceGrew purple with our passion, all the hoursFrom sun to sun would be unique with bliss,Little red mouth that is not mine to kiss!You are not mine and you will never be,And so I am magnanimous, I giveMy love and you to Time, and you shall liveBride of his avid passion. I will seeThe moon of all this lure and beauty set,And I will turn from you and quite forget.

THE BELLE

She spread her atlas petticoatSo rare, so fine to see.Her bonnet was of Tuscan straw,Her shawl was Turkey red.She peacocked gay before men's eyes,This lady of degree,On slippered tiny feet, and ah!She wished that she were dead.At every ball, at every routShe was the toast of town;But no one knew who called her coldWhat cruel wound had she.The laughing gallant that she lovedHad scorned her high renown,And now another bore his babe,And held it on her knee.

RELEASE

How may we be released from memories?One dreads each green renewal of the grain,Reviving ancient life. If but the brainMight be made clean of last year's withered lies,Blown like brown leaves across the April skiesIn hateful resurrection, and retainOnly the springs of promise, fine and sane,And a kind, leading hand to make us wise.If with the running sap a royal birthEach year might be accomplished, strong and freeWith the sweet prescience of virginity,Then were we true inheritors of earth,And the large lonely stars no more should seeThe age worn phoenix-lives that make our dearth.

THE THIEF

Did you see the rascal with the rain-grey eyes?He robbed me of my happiness before I knew its worth.He stole into my garden and took it by surprise,When midnight hid his wicked ways upon the sleeping earth.How shall I arrest him, for he took away my Spring,Took away my April 'neath his cloak of steaming rain.Tho' he left his Summer and a choir of birds that sing,Nothing will content me for I want my Spring again.

I WILL WRITE LETTERS TO THE GRASS

I will write letters to my friend the grass,I will sing all my songs to lilac flowersGather the spices in the airs that pass,And wrap my heart close shrouded in the hours.I dread man's huge impertinence; he creepsThro' the inviolate silences of SpringLike a marauder, waking that which sleepsTo gather strength for lyric blossoming.I will write all my letters to the grass.The world shall be resolved into a cryFaint as a little voice that cries Alas!And I will laugh alone beneath the sky.

ONLY THIS

We need demand no further gift from Heaven,We might dispense with documents and creeds,If but this one great grace to us were given—The strength to follow where our reason leads.

THE SURVIVOR

Beauty will crumble with tasking,Love rarely lasts for a year,Virtue is sold for the asking,Bravery fades before fear.Youth never lives till the morrow,One thing of all is alive,Joy cannot quench it, or sorrow,Folly alone shall survive.Folly, from cradle to burning,Toys for the great and the small,None shall escape her by learning—Folly has rattles for all!

MEGAERA

Always to suffer so, to want and weepWith woe that groweth every day more deep;To don the green robe of tormented scorn,And ever curse the hour that love was born!Furies, my Sisters! have you no surceaseFor me to whom no death shall bring release?They name me Jealous One. They hate my name,The ages hold me high to endless shame;How, if I suffer so, does no one careAnd pity, for the wrath that I must bear?Gods! let me go, your service wrecks and sears,The vase must break that holds so many tears.

THE SONG OF MOKAI

He's dead, I watched him die.He cast a spell on my mate,They loved, and the moon whirled 'round the sky,They mocked at my rage and hate.Blood red from the burning seaThe sun rose, and I knew!My soul whined wild little songs to me,I did what I had to do.I have taken the bone of his thigh,I have fashioned it into a horn;And I sing my soul's song, shrill and high,And curse the day he was born.

TO THE GYPSY MAN

Is there no room in your gypsy heartWhere a woman's love might lieWarm and sheltered, your prize and song,As you wander beneath the sky?No, for you say, "I'll carry no weight,I must be free, be free;I'll carry no love in my gypsy heartTo make a drag for me."Little you know, then, love is the cloakThat shelters you from the storm;Love makes the shoes for your gypsy feet,Love is your coat so warm.Though you take no purse and you take no staffYou cannot escape the loadOf a woman's longing and woman's loveThat follows you down the road.