Opal
You are ice and fire, The touch of you burns my hands like snow. You are cold and flame. You are the crimson of amaryllis, The silver of moon-touched magnolias. When I am with you, My heart is a frozen pond Gleaming with agitated torches.
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I Our meeting was like the upward swish of a rocket In the blue night. I do not know when it burst; But now I stand gaping, In a glory of falling stars. II Hola! Hola! shouts the crowd, as the catherine-wheels sputter and turn. Hola! They cheer the flower-pots and set pieces. And nobody heeds the cries of a young man in shirt-sleeves, Who has burnt his fingers setting them off. III A King and Queen, and a couple of Generals, Flame in colored lights; Putting out the stars, And making a great glare over the people wandering among the booths. They are very beautiful and impressive, And all the people say "Ah!" By and by they begin to go out, Little by little. The King's crown goes first, Then his eyes, Then his nose and chin. The Queen goes out from the bottom up, Until only the topmost jewel of her tiara is left. Then that, too, goes; And there is nothing but a frame of twisted wires, With the stars twinkling through it.
You are ice and fire, The touch of you burns my hands like snow. You are cold and flame. You are the crimson of amaryllis, The silver of moon-touched magnolias. When I am with you, My heart is a frozen pond Gleaming with agitated torches.
When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum. I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind. Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge you away from me, And the lamps of the city prick my eyes So that I can no longer see your face. Why should I leave you, To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?
Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper
Like draggled fly's legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my uncertain window and the bare floor
Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness
Beneath my hand.
I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon.
The children race now here by the ivied fence, gather squealing now there by the lily border. The evening calms the quickened air, immense and warm; its veil is pierced with fire. The order of space discloses as pair by pair porch lights carve shadows. Cool phosphors flare when dark permits yearning to signal where, with spark and pause and spark, the fireflies are, the sites they spiral when they aspire, with carefree ardor busy, to embrace a star that draws them thence. Like children we stand and stare, watching the field that twinkles where gold wisps fare to the end of dusk, as the sudden sphere, ivory shield aloft, of moon stands clear of the world's far bend.