University of Virginia Library

I do not think that God has cared for us.
I said that, seeing when they took my lord
And got about him with their wicked hands,
Their long brown fingers clenched about his hair,
And smote and slew him. Do not touch me, girls;
I did not bid you swarm all round my bed
With faces heaped on faces; for indeed
I am not very patient with my heart,
And I may strike you if you trouble me.

Now sometimes, if my lord would come to me
Out of the hot black ceremonial troop
Wherethro' I see him riding in my dreams,
I would not kiss him on the buried mouth;
For, verily, I tell you as things be,
There have been worms about it. See my lips,
Shall they kiss where the worms have been? for once
He said, ‘Those lips have caught the shadowed crown
Of petals stained with sunlight in their dew,
So the dear smile clings at them, comes and goes,
And makes me faint with wonder of her smile.’

I pray you very humbly of my love,
Let not the fair light hurt me; so it comes
And crawls about me, sliding out and in,
Till one must weep or curse, and I would rest.
I do not love the sky nor light that grows
Up in the morning, slow as if a prayer
Began to alter in the dying voice,
And trembled and clomb higher in the throat.
That is the sky's prayer, prayed in psalms of light;
And prayer is vain. Moreover I have prayed
And seen no face of God nor any saint,
And have not peace; so I hate light, for there
Sits God with all His saints and laugh at me,
They mock me in the sun and in the moon,
They mock me in the rainfall and the stars.

Dear Christ, if they had only strangled him,
If they had only stabbed him where he slept,
His hands in mine, his face against the lamp,
The lamp that made thin patterns on the wall,
I think I could have lived then, certainly.
I had been very patient, and Thou, Lord,
Hadst wondered for my patience and come down
To help me, putting Thy calm hands in mine
Even where his lay, and spoken blessed words,
And loosened all my heart to make me die.
I know not why men call Thee merciful;
For this was not. And now Thou seest me here,
I wonder in Thy light and in Thy shade,
I scorn to all Thy servants as they pass,
And how should this not be? for I have heard
That with strong hands they plucked him by the hair,
And trod on him, and smote upon his mouth,
And cut with a great axe of smooth white steel
Thro' his white throat, and rent away the head
To nail it up against their city walls.
All this I heard or seem myself to see
Till mine eyes ache, and a slow pain puts out
A cold hand in the hollow of my heart
To feel for pasture; and my throat grows thick,
And a deep anger sobs into my voice,
And my hands shut and open. O my God,
I am no girl that has not borne much pain
And will grow past her sorrow as a tree
Past the green withes one plaits about its base;
I have lived and wrought my work, and I am here
Cast down into the darkness of Thy hate,
With noises blown about me in the dark,
And great seas beating round and over me.

For now, thro' all the miserable nights
That grow between me and that face of thine,
Strange things creep round me lying in this bed,
Lean fingers touch my forehead and my lips,
Damp touches taint me to the core of sense,
And I am left as a polluted thing
Men spit on, lying bruised along the road,
And hidden in her weeping hair, and wet
With mire and blood; even such am I; for now,
If one should come and smite me on the cheek,
If one should come and spit into my mouth,
I do not think that God would take revenge.

What now? Why should you catch my hands in yours?
What would these girls? You will not let me come
And pluck this hair out that he used to kiss,
To kiss all over till it seemed to creep
And tingle with the trembling of his lips.
Now all the colour is gone out of it,
And all the glory gone out of my face
As paint one washes off a broken mask.
I must kneel too, then! I must put my hands
As in a prayer one puts them up to God,
To pray you of your pity let me sleep!
For look, I cannot sleep for all this pain,
And till I sleep I shall be sick at heart
And weaker than the snapped stem of a rose.
Nay but by God I will not pray at all,
Nor weep to you because you love me not.
I will have men to come and bind your hands,
And bruise you with most heavy chains of steel,
And drive a thick bolt in over your heads,
So ye shall lie on naked floors and writhe
With foul damp touches crawling over you,
With great worms feeding up and down your limbs.
And I shall laugh and look across the grate
And see you heaped about the wet red mire,
Face downwards in a huddle of live slime,
And you will writhe with miserable limbs
And turn to see me laughing in the sun.

Ah, girls, when he is come to me again
I shall put on my crownet, and a robe
Ashine from hem to hem and skirt by skirt
With twisted gold in threads, and overthwart
With light of many jewels, emerald
And hyacinth and the white flame of pearls,
And seek him as the evening seeks a star,
And find him as the midnight finds the moon.
I shall put on my crown and go to him,
And he will take me round with both his arms,
And kiss me. But for love I think of him
I shall not answer save with eyes and face,
Lit from the marvel of his face and eyes,
And he will smile and bow himself and say,
‘Look, sweet, there are my hands I put on yours,
This is my hair that stoops to brush your neck
As I stoop down to kiss you on the mouth.’
Then I shall weep and say some foolish thing
Because I shudder still thro' all my blood
From his great kiss; and he will say—by Christ
I will not have you know what he will say.
But I shall laugh and gather close to him,
My face and all my body and my hair
Bowed over him as rain when a cloud stoops,
Closer than dew clings round a dying flower.
Then shall I loose my hands and cry and say,
‘Ah, Love, what is this line upon your throat?’
And he will tremble and grow lean and pale.
(I shall feel sick with fear of his cold face)
And he will slip between my arms and go.
Then shall I bruise my arms against the ground,
And crush my bosom harder on the stone,
And beat my bare face on the floor and die.
Yea, now would I so beat my lips and bruise
And break myself against the bitter stone,
And drag my cheeks and hair upon the ground,
And mar my flesh with blows if I were free.

For I begin to think the word of death
Is a lewd jape, a thin and blind report
Made to deceive men of their wretchedness;
But so will I be not deceived of mine,
Because I love it. O my God, O God,
I knew them, when they spake and had no heart,
Sat talking of a child to make me mad;
For it was never writ of any man
That he had pain like mine and was not mad.
Yea, I was present, O dear Lord—indeed
Said nothing, only gazed into my hair,
And wept because they hurt me with their words;
Because I knew the trouble, and the change
Of shadow and of colour round the brow,
And round the eyes and the warm little mouth
That is cold now and has not earth on it,
And all the rainy place is cold for it,
In the soft, narrow grave where I would be!
Nathless, I thought that till God shut me up
I might have lived without remembering it.
But now the bitter sweetness stings me thro'
As sharp wine stings and curdles all one's mouth,
Runs thro' me in a trembling of the blood,
And the small hands that wandered on my face
With sweet and doubtful touches, and the feet
Thrust out that could not stand or run at all,
And the grave eyes so full and passionate
That never child but mine had such a face.
O dearest Mother whose eyes long ago
Christ kissed in heaven, made pure of any tear,
I pray thee, Mother, help me for my pain,
Who am but sinful woman and too weak.
To think how the small face would stare in mine
With finger-clasp of sweet imperial hands,
And tender tremble of beseeching lips—
The child, the child, O pity, O my child!

Lo now, you see me that I am not mad.
For how should one remember this and live?
If it were possible one might go mad,
I would kneel always on my barèd knees
Under the lamp until my heart were sick,
With steady swim of incense even-wise,
Along the dense air in and out the lamps
Until my blood grew thick and my hands loose
And my head heavily smote upon the stone.
Also at night when you that are no queens
As God knows, all you miserable girls
Sleep with your foolish faces pillowed up
In soft hot rooms made quiet with your breath,
I would kneel naked there in all the light
And pray till both my lips were worn, and all
This lean flesh wasted from me, till some man
Found me some white and bitter time of dawn
With thin hands praying and set lips of prayer
And loose limbs on the floor, naked and dead;
And over me the insolent cold sun,
And gaunt white flames a-shiver on the lamps;
And round me all the carven church-work, saints
Painted about the windows marvellous,
And lean stone faces with intolerant lips,
And brows drawn back for eyes to stare me blind.
God help me! Look, I am not mad at all;
Tho' all these nights, lying along my bed,
Flung out at level with these heavy limbs,
I see the shadows of the muffled walls
Alter about me, crawl and turn and shift,
Changed just to mock me; and men's voices cry
Sharper than scorn, and the noise thrills my hair,
So close it tingles as they seem to say
‘A queen, a queen!’ As then a laughter grows
About my heart and makes me hot, I know
That many would go mad for less than I
To have such laughter tighten in one's throat,
And choke one till it made him deaf and blind.
For I have come to hear I was a queen,
Might not another die so? Then I take
My hair and pull it closer on the face
And lie and weep through it great tears like these.
I pray you do not let me bleed to death.
I will be patient and not weep at all
If you will help me. Look, I do not weep
Tho' there are women weeping for less pain.
I pray you help me lest I bleed to death.
My heart is full of weeping, and both eyes
Stained thro' with some red sight of agony,
And a slow pain eats thro' me, limb by limb,
As fire eats wood; now, if I can pray loud,
Now God must hear me. Ah, but I am filled
With some obscure pollution which devours
My flesh and blood and breath; and so I lie
Deeper within my grave than any sleep
In some green place under the dropping dews.

I have seen many things and done much ill,
And lived a broken life filled full of change
Ere this; for never any woman lived
Such life out since I grew a child too sad
For holiday or playtime of the rest.
In that lean castle by the thin white stream
Shackled with pallid nets of river-weed,
I grew there with no help of the warm sun,
Nor light of tender faces one might love.
And then I grew a woman and a queen,
Filled as one fills a vessel with hot wine
Up to the carven lips of gold, so filled
By a great love that held me body and soul,
That made me white and cruel, cold, and thin,
And yet I tell you that I was beloved.
Yea verily, no woman hath more love
Of any man that holds her in his hands
And kisses her till she grow faint for pain,
Than I had of my lord when I was queen.
For now I flush and shudder as the sea
Under a red and creeping light of dawn,
Remembering the kisses and the words
That each kiss ended on the lips, and all
The gazing that consumes me flesh and soul.
So may I find him somewhere when I die,
Climb somehow to him over toothèd stones
That steam and drip with blood of both my feet;
Climb to him, weeping eyes and laughing lips
Under a huddled rain of hair, and say,
‘O Love, I know this was thy blazon once,
When all men praised me for my knight, even me;
White wings against a floor of smooth red gold;
And this, dear, was that poor blue scarf of mine,
Long since I drew so close over thy wound
That bled and drenched it thro' the colour, stained
And stained thro' all the golden woof of it.
And this, Love, is that very face you had
When I would weep for anger or some grief
Till your laugh spoilt the kiss I had of you.’

Ah, dearest Lord, if such a thing might be,
What I would give you of my love, O Lord!
I would have painters to paint you wall by wall
Even to the dark aisle-chapels, out of sight,
White angels very glorious, and Thy saints
Crowned in a great smooth splendour of white light
And clothed upon with colour, wonderful,
And Virgins with brows overbent for weight
Of their large aureoles, and calm claspt hands
Lain evenwise about the child that sleeps,
Painted, O Lord, as fair as mine own child's,
As marvellous with hair and mouth and eyes.
Yea, such things blazoned in and out the walls
As should rejoice Thee for my service, Lord,
And make men praise Thee for this work of mine.
And altars carven in rough golden frames,
And candles of pure flame, wool-white and smooth,
And such sharp incense as the Arab grates
From the tree's costliest heart, and myrrh to burn
Before Thee in the golden holiness,
And all from roof to floor diverse and strange
With royal gloom and light, and over-full
With songs and odours blown thro' wealthiest air;
A glorious church to stand up in Thy sight
And praise Thee before all the nations, Lord!
Only I pray Thee let me see his face.

Know not even these that huddle there agape
With meaningless white faces, know they not
That God is pleased with service? So at last
When all this work is finished I shall come
And kiss him on the forehead and the mouth,
And on the smooth imperial white throat
Set large and stately without any scar.

Indeed I know not how I seem to live,
Sometimes I feel more light than any bird
That dips between the leaves thro' golden shade
And thro' white sunshine; otherwhiles I think
That all the years are gathering up in rain
Like clouds the wind brings oversea from France;
It is the south wind shakes our blossoms, look!

Moreover, love, I pray you kiss me close
On mouth and brow, because you see my rose
Has withered for the kisses of the rain.
And I will sing to sweeten my red mouth,
And plait my hair till all the lines be smooth,
And speak as sweetly till I sing again.
For so you praised me singing long ago,
And I remember as the seasons blow
From summer into summer, and I make
My recollection sweeter for regret
Than the dead odour of a violet,
I pray you love me for that summer's sake.