St. Faith’s Eve

We stood together on a balcony
An hour when the night
Died into blankness,
And light mist
Curling beneath us, hid the earth,
And the cold, unburied stars
Drew further into space...

I turned to meet your eyes
And saw
Like a light, rosy veil
Your flesh sink gently down
Leaving only the simple skeleton
And a white voice which said: 
“This still is I,
Do you love me
Now?”

Quietly, and without sadness
I looked upon you,
For comfort blindly reached my soul
And primitive beauty. 
Without passion, without fervour,
I spoke at last: 
“Somehow Faith
Shines from your empty eye-holes,
And Truth
Speaks mutely from your fleshless jaws. 
I choose your skeleton to lie with
In the peaceful bed of earth
Through all the dreamless, mornless, utter night!”

Poems of Elijah Hay

The Golden Stag

O hungry hearted ones, sharp-limbed, keen-eyed,
     Let me have place! 
I too would ride
     On your fantastic chase.

Your hunger is a silver hunting horn,
     I heard it sweep
The frozen, peaceful morn: 
     Its note bit me from sleep.

I will ride with you, hunters, even I,
     Toward a far hill
To see the golden stag against the sky
     Uncaptured still.

To Anne Knish

Madam, you intrigue me!

I have come this far
Cautiously sneezing
Along the dusty highroad of convention,
But now it leads no farther toward you.

Today
I have reached the cross roads—­
A weather-beaten sign-board
Blazons undecipherable wisdom
Of which the arrow-heads, even,
Have been effaced.

Eastward, it leads through cultivated fields
Of intellectual fodder,
Where well-fed cattle, herding together,
Browse content: 
Are you of these?

Westward, is a lane, hedge-bordered,
Shady, and of gentle indirection,
In May, a bower of sentimental bloom,
But this November weather
Betrays its destiny, the poultry yard
Where geese foregather.

And there ahead, the ancient, swampy way
Modernized by a feeble plank or two: 
But the morass of passion lures me not! 
I see a vision of two plunging feet,
Discreetly shod, yet struggling in vain—­
Slime
Creeps ankle-high, knee-high, thigh-high,
Till all is swallowed save a brave silk hat
Floating alone, a symbol of the creed
I perished shedding.

Yet somewhere you
Intelligent of my distress
Smile, undisturbed—­
I have no pedlar’s license to submit,
No wares to cry, nor any gift to bring—­
I do not know
Anything new—­
In truth, then, what have I to do with you?

Yet, madam, you intrigue me!

Lolita

How curious to find in you, Lolita,
The geisha
Who sits and strums in the immortal
Attitude of submission. 
There is a ledger in place of her soul!