Theme and Variations

                 I
Not even my pride will suffer much;
Not even my pride at all, maybe,
If this ill-timed, intemperate clutch
Be loosed by you and I not by me,
Will suffer; I have been so true
A vestal to that only pride
Wet wood cannot extinguish, nor
Sand, nor its embers scattered, for,
See all these years, it has not died.

And if indeed, as I dare think,
You cannot push this patient flame,
By any breath your lungs could store,
Even for a moment to the floor
To crawl there, even for a moment crawl,
What can you mix for me to drink
That shall deflect me? What you do
Is either malice, crude defense
Of ego, or indifference:

I know these things as well as you;
You do not dazzle me at all.

Some love, and some simplicity,
Might well have been the death of me.

                 II
Heart, do not bruise the breast
That sheltered you so long;
Beat quietly, strange guest.

Or have I done you wrong 
To feed you life so fast? 
Why, no; digest this food
And thrive. You could outlast
Discomfort if you would.

You do not know for whom
These tears drip through my hands. 
You thud in the bright room 
Darkly. This pain demands
No action on your part,
Who never saw that face.

These eyes, that let him in,
(Not you, my guiltless heart)
These eyes, let them erase 
His image, blot him out 
With weeping, and go blind.

Heart, do not stain my skin
With bruises; go about
Your simple function.  Mind, 
Sleep now; do not intrude;
And do not spy; be kind.

Sweet blindness, now begin.

                 III
Rolled in the trough of thick desire,
No oars, and no sea-anchor out
To bring my bow into the pyre
Of sunset, suddenly chilling out 
To shadow over sky and sea, 
And the boat helpless in the trough;
No oil to pour; no power in me
To breast these waves, to shake them off:

I feel such pity for the poor,
Who take the fracas on the beam—
Being ill-equipped, being insecure—
Daily; and caulk the opening seam 
With strips of shirt and scribbled rhyme; 
Who bail disaster from the boat
With a pint can; and have no time, 
Being so engrossed to keep afloat, 
Even for quarrelling (that chagrined 
And lavish comfort of the heart), 
Who never came into the wind,
Who took life beam-on from the start.

                 IV
And do you think that love itself, 
Living in such an ugly house,
Can prosper long?

                    We meet and part;
Our talk is all of heres and nows,
Our conduct likewise; in no act
Is any future, any past;
Under our sly, unspoken pact, 
I know with whom I saw you last, 
But I say nothing; and you know 
At six-fifteen to whom I go.

Can even love be treated so?

I know, but I do not insist,
Having stealth and tact, though not enough, 
What hour your eye is on your wrist.
No wild appeal, no mild rebuff 
Deflates the hour, leaves the wine flat.

Yet if you drop the picked-up book 
To intercept my clockward look—
Tell me, can love go on like that?

Even the bored, insulted heart,
That signed so long and tight a lease, 
Can break its contract, slump in peace.

                 V
I had not thought so tame a thing 
Could deal me this bold suffering.

I have loved badly, loved the great 
Too soon, withdrawn my words too late; 
And eaten in an echoing hall
Alone and from a chipped plate
The words that I withdrew too late.
Yet even so, when I recall
How ardently, ah! and to whom 
Such praise was given, I am not sad: 
The very rafters of this room 
Are honoured by the guests it had.

You only, being unworthy quite 
And specious,—never, as I think, 
Having noticed how the gentry drink 
Their poison, how administer 
Silence to those they would inter— 
Have brought me to dementia's brink.

Not that this blow be dealt to me: 
But by thick hands, and clumsily.

                 VI
Leap now into this quiet grave.
How cool it is. Can you endure
Packed men and their hot rivalries—
The plodding rich, the shiftless poor, 
The bold inept, the weak secure— 
Having smelt this grave, how cool it is?

Why, here's a house, why, here's a bed 
For every lust that drops its head 
In sleep, for vengeance gone to seed, 
For the slashed vein that will not bleed, 
The jibe unheard, the whip unfelt, 
The mind confused, the smooth pelt 
Of the breast, compassionate and brave. 
Pour them into this quiet grave.

                 VII
Now from a stout and more imperious day 
Let dead impatience arm me for the act. 
We bear too much. Let the proud past gainsay 
This tolerance. Now, upon the sleepy pact 
That bound us two as lovers, now in the night 
And ebb of love, let me with stealth proceed, 
Catch the vow nodding, harden, feel no fright, 
Bring forth the weapon sleekly, do the deed.

I know—and having seen, shall not deny— 
This flag inverted keeps its colour still; 
This moon in wane and scooped against the sky 
Blazes in stern reproach. Stare back, my Will—
We can out-gaze it; can do better yet: 
We can expunge it. I will not watch it set.

                 VIII
The time of year ennobles you. 
The death of autumn draws you in.

The death of those delights I drew 
From such a cramped and troubled source 
Ennobles all, including you,
Involves you as a matter of course.

You are not, you have never been
(Nor did I ever hold you such), 
Between your banks, that all but touch, 
Fit subject for heroic song. . .
The busy stream not over-strong,
The flood that any leaf could dam. . . .

Yet more than half of all I am
Lies drowned in shallow water here:
And you assume the time of year.

I do not say this love will last: 
Yet Time's perverse, eccentric power 
Has bound the hound and stag so fast 
That strange companions mount the tower 
Where Lockhart's fate with Keats is cast, 
And Booth with Lincoln shares the hour.

That which has quelled me, lives with me, 
Accomplice in catastrophe.