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To those who come for what she was
The few left who know where to find her
She clings； for they are all she has；
And she may smile when they remind her；
As heretofore； of what they know
Of roses that are still to blow
By ways where not so much as grass
Remains of what she sees behind her。
They stay a while； and having done
What penance or the past requires；
They go； and leave her there alone
To count her chimneys and her spires。
Her lip shakes when they go away；
And yet she would not have them stay；
She knows as well as anyone
That Pity； having played； soon tires。
But one friend always reappears；
A good ghost； not to be forsaken；
Whereat she laughs and has no fears
Of what a ghost may reawaken；
But welcomes； while she wears and mends
The poor relation's odds and ends；
Her truant from a tomb of years
Her power of youth so early taken。
Poor laugh； more slender than her song
It seems； and there are none to hear it
With even the stopped ears of the strong
For breaking heart or broken spirit。
The friends who clamored for her place；
And would have scratched her for her face；
Have lost her laughter for so long
That none would care enough to fear it。
None live who need fear anything
From her； whose losses are their pleasure；
The plover with a wounded wing
Stays not the flight that others measure；
So there she waits； and while she lives；
And death forgets； and faith forgives；
Her memories go foraging
For bits of childhood song they treasure。
And like a giant harp that hums
On always； and is always blending
The coming of what never comes
With what has past and had an ending；
The City trembles； throbs； and pounds
Outside； and through a thousand sounds
The small intolerable drums
Of Time are like slow drops descending。
Bereft enough to shame a sage
And given little to long sighing；
With no illusion to assuage
The lonely changelessness of dying；
Unsought； unthought…of； and unheard；
She sings and watches like a bird；
Safe in a comfortable cage
From which there will be no more flying。
The Burning Book
Or the Contented Metaphysician
To the lore of no manner of men
Would his vision have yielded
When he found what will never again
From his vision be shielded；
Though he paid with as much of his life
As a nun could have given；
And to…night would have been as a knife；
Devil…drawn； devil…driven。
For to…night； with his flame…weary eyes
On the work he is doing；
He considers the tinder that flies
And the quick flame pursuing。
In the leaves that are crinkled and curled
Are his ashes of glory；
And what once were an end of the world
Is an end of a story。
But he smiles； for no more shall his days
Be a toil and a calling
For a way to make others to gaze
On God's face without falling。
He has come to the end of his words；
And alone he rejoices
In the choiring that silence affords
Of ineffable voices。
To a realm that his words may not reach
He may lead none to find him；
An adept； and with nothing to teach；
He leaves nothing behind him。
For the rest； he will have his release；
And his embers； attended
By the large and unclamoring peace
Of a dream that is ended。
Fragment
Faint white pillars that seem to fade
As you look from here are the first one sees
Of his house where it hides and dies in a shade
Of beeches and oaks and hickory trees。
Now many a man； given woods like these；
And a house like that； and the Briony gold；
Would have said； 〃There are still some gods to please；
And houses are built without hands； we're told。〃
There are the pillars； and all gone gray。
Briony's hair went white。 You may see
Where the garden was if you come this way。
That sun…dial scared him； he said to me；
〃Sooner or later they strike；〃 said he；
And he never got that from the books he read。
Others are flourishing； worse than he；
But he knew too much for the life he led。
And who knows all knows everything
That a patient ghost at last retrieves；
There's more to be known of his harvesting
When Time the thresher unbinds the sheaves；
And there's more to be heard than a wind that grieves
For Briony now in this ageless oak；
Driving the first of its withered leaves
Over the stones where the fountain broke。
Lisette and Eileen
〃When he was here alive； Eileen；
There was a word you might have said；
So never mind what I have been；
Or anything； for you are dead。
〃And after this when I am there
Where he is； you'll be dying still。
Your eyes are dead； and your black hair；
The rest of you be what it will。
〃'Twas all to save him？ Never mind；
Eileen。 You saved him。 You are strong。
I'd hardly wonder if your kind
Paid everything； for you live long。
〃You last； I mean。 That's what I mean。
I mean you last as long as lies。
You might have said that word； Eileen；
And you might have your hair and eyes。
〃And what you see might be Lisette；
Instead of this that has no name。
Your silence I can feel it yet；
Alive and in me； like a flame。
〃Where might I be with him to…day；
Could he have known before he heard？
But no your silence had its way；
Without a weapon or a word。
〃Because a word was never told；
I'm going as a worn toy goes。
And you are dead； and you'll be old；
And I forgive you； I suppose。
〃I'll soon be changing as all do；
To something we have always been；
And you'll be old 。 。 。 He liked you； too。
I might have killed you then； Eileen。
〃I think he liked as much of you
As had a reason to be seen；
As much as God made black and blue。
He liked your hair and eyes； Eileen。〃
Llewellyn and the Tree
Could he have made Priscilla share
The paradise that he had planned；
Llewellyn would have loved his wife
As well as any in the land。
Could he have made Priscilla cease
To goad him for what God left out；
Llewellyn would have been as mild
As any we have read about。
Could all have been as all was not；
Llewellyn would have had no story；
He would have stayed a quiet man
And gone his quiet way to glory。
But howsoever mild he was
Priscilla was implacable；
And whatsoever timid hopes
He built she found them； and they fell。
And this went on； with intervals
Of labored harmony between
Resounding discords； till at last
Llewellyn turned as will be seen。
Priscilla； warmer than her name；
And shriller than the sound of saws；
Pursued Llewellyn once too far；
Not knowing quite the man he was。
The more she said； the fiercer clung
The stinging garment of his wrath；
And this was all before the day
When Time tossed roses in his path。
Before the roses ever came
Llewellyn had already risen。
The roses may have ruined him；
They may have kept him out of prison。
And she who brought them； being Fate；
Made roses do the work of spears；
Though many made no more of her
Than civet； coral； rouge； and years。
You ask us what Llewellyn saw；
But why ask what may not be given？
To some will come a time when change
Itself is beauty； if not heaven。
One afternoon Priscilla spoke；
And her shrill history was done；
At any rate； she never spoke
Like that again to anyone。
One gold October afternoon
Great fury smote the silent air；
And then Llewellyn leapt and fled
Like one with hornets in his hair。
Llewellyn left us； and he said
Forever； leaving few to doubt him；
And so； through frost and clicking leaves；
The Tilbury way went on without him。
And slowly； through the Tilbury mist；
The stillness of October gold
Went out like beauty from a face。
Priscilla watched it； and grew old。
He fled； still clutching in his flight
The roses that had been his fall；
The Scarlet One； as you surmise；
Fled with him； coral； rouge； and all。
Priscilla； waiting； saw the change
Of twenty slow October moons；
And then she vanished； in her turn
To be forgotten； like old tunes。
So they were gone all three of them；
I should have said； and said no more；
Had not a face once on Broadway
Been one that I had seen before。
The face and hands and hair were old；
But neither time nor penury
Could quench within Llewellyn's eyes
The shine of his one victory。
The roses； faded and gone by；
Left ruin where they once had reigned；
But on the wreck； as on old shells；
The color of the rose remained。
His fictive merchandise I bought
For him to keep and show again；
Then led him slowly from the crush
Of his cold…shouldered fellow men。
〃And so； Llewellyn；〃 I began
〃Not so；〃 he said； 〃not so； at all：
I've tried the world； and found it good；
For more than twenty years this fall。
〃And what t