Harold Monro
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- When the tea is brought at five o'clock,
- And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
- The little black cat with bright green eyes
- Is suddenly purring there.
- At first she pretends, having nothing to do,
- She has come in merely to blink by the grate,
- But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour,
- She is never late.
- And presently her agate eyes
- Take a soft large milky haze,
- And her independent casual glance
- Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.
- Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears,
- Or twists her tail and begins to stir,
- Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes
- One breathing, trembling purr.
- The children eat and wriggle and laugh;
- The two old ladies stroke their silk:
- But the cat is grown small and thin with desire,
- Transformed to a creeping lust for milk.
- The white saucer like some full moon descends
- At last from the clouds of the table above;
- She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows,
- Transfigured with love.
- She nestles over the shining rim,
- Buries her chin in the creamy sea;
- Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw
- Is doubled under each bending knee.
- A long, dim ecstasy holds her life;
- Her world is an infinite shapeless white,
- Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop,
- Then she sinks back into the night,
- Draws and dips her body to heap
- Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair,
- Lies defeated and buried deep
- Three or four hours unconscious there.
- Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?
- Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?
- Give them me.
- No.
- Give them me. Give them me.
- No.
- Then I will howl all night in the reeds,
- Lie in the mud and howl for them.
- Goblin, why do you love them so?
- They are better than stars or water,
- Better than voices of winds that sing,
- Better than any man's fair daughter,
- Your green glass beads on a silver ring.
- Hush, I stole them out of the moon.
- Give me your beads, I want them.
- No.
- I will howl in the deep lagoon
- For your green glass beads, I love them so.
- Give thme me. Give them.
- No.
- The holy boy
- Went from his mother out in the cool of the day
- Over the sun-parched fields
- And in among the olives shining green and shining grey.
- There was no sound,
- No smallest voice of any shivering stream.
- Poor sinless little boy,
- He desired to play and to sing; he could only sigh and dream.
- Suddenly came
- Running along to him naked, with curly hair,
- That rogue of the lovely world,
- That other beautiful child whom the virgin Venus bare.
- The holy boy
- Gazed with those sad blue eyes that all men know.
- Impudent Cupid stood
- Panting, holding an arrow and pointing his bow.
- (Will you not play?
- Jesus, run to him, run to him, swift for our joy.
- Is he not holy, like you?
- Are you afraid of his arrows, O beautiful dreaming boy?)
- And now they stand
- Watching one another with timid gaze;
- Youth has met youth in the wood,
- But holiness will not change its melancholy ways.
- Cupid at last
- Draws his bow and softly lets fly a dart.
- Smile for a moment, sad world! --
- It has grazed the white skin and drawn blood from the sorrowful heart.
- Now, for delight,
- Cupid tosses his locks and goes wantonly near;
- But the child that was born to the cross
- Has let fall on his cheek, for the sadness of life, a compassionate tear.
- Marvellous dream!
- Cupid has offered his arrows for Jesus to try
- He as offered his bow for the game.
- But Jesus went weeping away, and left him there wondering why.
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