Winifred Welles

I have no beauty that is all my own, No special loveliness carved out of me, No glowing images wrought perfectly, Splendour of flesh or delicacy of bone. I am a pool, wherein you shall be shown How wonderful and starlike you can be, I am a mirror so that you may see Yourself most intimately and alone.

When you lean to me and a dear, swift grace Sways in my body, and my lips and eyes Grow suddenly and exquisitely calm — Oh tremble and look deep into my face And see your own there, marvel and grow wise, Touch me and cry, " How beautiful I am ! "

You were the princess of the fairy tale Who spoke in emeralds instead of words, Whose laughter left an exquisite, bright trail Of sounds as winged and visible as birds.

I never knew until yours went from me, That any voice could love my name so much, That just to speak it made it seem to be A fragrance and a color and a touch.

My days are gestures of bewilderment, My nights are attitudes of listening. For fear you may have whispered as you went, And I shall lose the starlike echoing.

Life gave me these — The beauty that can only branch in trees Who are content, knowing the roots' securities — The strength to stand up straight and bear the wings Of a brave ship on her adventurings — The bitterness of being broken, being tossed And driven on the waters and the winds, and lost In desolation, mist and stinging foam, And being beaten back at last to home.

Now love has kindled me — Strange that my beauty of a dear, green tree Should vanish into smoke and memory. Strange that the strength, magnificently mine. Should fall before the flame without a sign. But oh most strange that bitterness should be Drawn up in color after color out of me.

No firefly more forlorn, more gravely strays Among the glories of the morning tree Than I, who glide almost invisibly Where apple boughs are white as brides' bouquets. Beneath the arches of the orchard ways, Only one tulip, that I start to see, As though my own heart had dropped out of me, Seems to have guessed that I, too, am ablaze.

My blood is full of gleamings like seafoam, My body brims with something of the moon And shakes, as if with wings that would unfold. So, after dark, I bar the doors of home, Lest those, who think that I am grey at noon, Should stare at night to see that I am gold.

With tears and a faithful heart and brave mirth, Once on a time you watched to welcome me. Waiting and weariness and agony Until the last were what you thought me worth. But wearier than the months that wait for birth Are those that wait for death— How shall I be Still while you are so still? How shall I see Unbrokenhearted your slow steps from earth?

So the white watchers gather near to hark The soul's approach, the heralding of the horn, And so they strain and listen for the tread Of the free soul retreating down the dark — Mothers who wait for children to be born, Children who wait for mothers to be dead.

I too would run like Nicolette Down aisles of rose and mignonette, And stain my knees with midnight dew Passing the ghostly gardens through, If I should know that loverly Young Aucassin awaited me!

And I could leave without regret My warm white bed like Nicolette, And flee from roof and candle-light Into the deepest hour of night, If by the ivy-shadowed wall, I knew that Aucassin would call.

But I'll not tremble in the wet. Nor bruise my feet like Nicolette, Only to dream of his embrace, Only to think I see his face. Feel nothing sweeter on my mouth Than heedless wind lips from the south, Only to stand unloved, alone, And listen to the fountain moan From stone to unresponsive stone.

Musician, give a voice to me! Oh quicken wood and string, Unburden me of ecstasy, For I have songs to sing!

Of faces forward through dark rains, Of torn but valiant feet, Of blood that runs in shrinking veins, Of broken hearts that beat.

Of crooked boughs that have kept true The promise to fulfill, Of thwarted roots that yet pursue Their purpose in the hill.

Oh all you safe and smooth of heart Listen to song from me, Whose wooden throat was once a part Of the north side of a tree!

You said they were brook trout — Those fairy blades of sun and moonlight You so gravely lifted out One by one from your basket on the grass. And I held up two handfuls Of pink and green and white For everyone to see, And called the colors by a name, Wood-anemone.

But of all those little dreams in cups Left brimming over on the moss, And of that big, breathless one We leaned across The fallen willow to give back again To deep and shoal — We never said a word, We never told a soul!