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brought—

       I slowly dripped the fountain, drop on drop

       All through my tresses, dried them languidly;

       With quiet, measured step, out in the sun

       I walked me to and fro—oh! to and fro!

       But 'twas still damp—the path is narrow there.

       I looked among the bushes, for the birds,—

       Less than a zephyr's breath I bent them back,

       Those swaying branches, sat 'neath rustling trees,

       And felt on cheeks and hands in waiting woe

       The little flickerings of warm sunshine.

       I closed my eyes, and almost thought soft lips

       Gently caressing, strayed my clammy brow.

       Sometimes hours come when this duplicity,

       All this concealment, seems so fruitless, and

       I cannot bear it. I can only gaze

       With eyes of steel far up into the sky

       Where flocks of wild geese float, or bend me low

       O'er some mad, rushing plunging waterfall

       That tears my weakling shadow with its flow,—

       I will be patient—why, I must, I am!—

       Madonna—I will climb the steepest mount

       And on my knees will count me every stone

       With this, my rosary, if only now,

       Oh, soon,—this day will sink into the night.

       It is so long! I have its measured tread

       With these same beads been scanning o'er and o'er.

       And now I talk so fev'rishly, instead

       Of counting all the leaves upon that tree.

       Oh! I have finished much too soon again.

       See! See the yeoman, calling to his dog.

       The shadows do upon his garden fall,

       For him the night has come, but brings no joy;

       He fears it, locks his door and is alone.—

       See where the maidens wander to the well.

       I know the manner in which each of them

       Will fill her bucket—that one's prettiest.

       Why does the stranger at the cross roads stay?

       Distant's his goal, I warrant. He unwinds

       And folds again the cloth about his feet.

       What an existence! Draw the thorns, yes, draw

       Them quickly out. You must speed. We all

       Must hurry on, the restless day must down

       And with it take this bright and scarlet glow

       That's lingering in radiance on my cheeks.

       All that is troubling us cast far away,

       Fling wide the thorn into the field

       Where waters flow and sheaves of brilliant flow'rs

       Are bending, glowing, yearning towards the night.—

       I draw my rings from off my fingers, and

       They're happy as the naked children are

       Who scamper quickly to the brook to bathe.—

       Now all the girls have gone—

       Only one maiden's left. Oh, what lovely hair!

       I wonder if she knows its beauty's power?

       Perhaps she's vain—but vanity, thou art

       A plaything only for the empty years.

       When once she has arrived where I am now,

       She'll love her hair, she'll let it clasp her close,

       Enwrap her round and whisper to her low,

       Like echoing harpstrings throbbing with the touch

       Of fev'rish fingers straying in the dark.

      [She loosens her hair and lets it fall to the left and to the right in front of her.]

      What, would you close to me? Down, down with you.—

       I bid you greet him. When the dusk has come,

       And when his hands hold fast the ladder there

       A-sudden he will feel, instead the leaves,

       The cool, firm leaves, a gently spraying rain,

       A rain that falls at eve from golden clouds.

      [She lets her hair fall over the balustrade.]

      You are so long, and yet you barely reach

       A third the distance; hardly are your ends

       Touching the cold, white marble lion's nose.

      [She laughs and rises.]

      Ah! there's a spider! No, I will not fling

       You off; I lay my hand once more

       Upon this spot, so you may find again

       The road you wish to speed so quickly on.

       How I have changed! I am bewitched indeed!

       In former days, I could not touch the fruit

       Within a basket, if upon its edge

       A spider had been seen. Now in my hand

       It runs.—Intoxication makes me glad!

       Why, I could walk along the very edge

       Of narrow walls, and would not totter—no!—

       Could I but fall into the waters deep!

       In their cool velvet arms I would be well,

       Sliding in grottoes of bright sapphire hues

       Playing with wondrous beings of the deep

       All golden finned, with eyes benignly sad.

       Yes, if I were immured in the chestnut woods

       Within some ruined walls, my soul were free.

       For there the forest's animals would come

       And tiny birds. The little weasels would

       Brush up against and touch my naked toes

       With their soft snouts and lashes of bright eyes

       While in the moss I lay and ate wild fruit.—

       What's rustling? 'Tis the little porcupine

       Of that first night. What, are you there again,

       Stepped from the dark? Art going on the hunt?

       Oh! If my hunter would but come to me!

      [Looking up.]

      Now have the shadows vanished! Gone are all

       Those of the pines and those of the dolls,

       The ones that played about the little huts,

       The large ones from the vineyards and the one

       Upon the figtree at the crossroads—gone

       As though the quiet earth had sucked them in!

       The night has really come! The lamp

       Is placed upon the table, closely press

       The sheep together—close within the fold.

       Within the darkest corners of the eaves

       Where the dustvine-leaves meet, goblins do crouch,

       And on the heights from out the clearing step

       The blessed saints to gaze where churches stand

      

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