Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
THE GARDEN OF DESIRE
LOVE SONNETS TO A SPANISH MONK
By
Edna Worthley Underwood
NEW YORK & LONDON
Mitchell Kennerley
1913
Copyright, 1913, by
Mitchell Kennerley
Printed in America
I
THE GARDEN OF DESIRE
“O, holy God of Love, thou guidest there the heart where hindrances are.”
Kalidasa. (Malavika and Agnimitra)
I
I hastened homeward through the twilight lone
While on my lips your kisses stung like flame,
Burning to purest white the rose of shame
That leaped between us, scarlet lipped, full blown;
Within my ears your Spanish speech made moan;
I saw nor mud, mist, gray, wet streets; there came
As in a vision, Spain of splendid name.
Your castle in Love’s Land—there, we, alone!
Gone! Gone! Here by the window now I wait
For him to whom I owe yet give not love;
Watching the bird-winged night drop from above,
Grouped church spires, like frail hands up-flung to Fate,
On windows through which answering night lights chime,
I hear the passionless, cold rain of Winter time!
II
How well, how well you woo me with soft speech,
Fire swift my blood with wreathèd word divine!
“If power to choose Love’s own pure tongue were mine,”
You said, “I’d choose Italia’s to teach
You how I love; but If I must beseech
As penitent, mercy, pardon divine—
(As now in love’s proud passion I seek thine)—
O! let us, Sweet, speak Spanish, each to each!”
“But if in haughtiness I would command,
See armies, nations, bow beneath my word,
Then let the bitter English tongue be heard!”
“Love! Love!” I cried, “stretch out your sceptred hand,
Put from you the soft vowels that sing of Spain—
Look! Look! I kneel before you in love’s pain!”
III
No! No! I told you once, twice, thrice,—this wise,
And firmly I said it despite the hand
That clung about my breasts, the vice-like band
That passion set on me; despite your eyes
That eagerly sought mine, their wild surprise
That trembling with desire I could withstand
The majesty of Love’s greatest command
Laid on us with the weight of destinies.
I left, aye!—left you there and went my way.
Outside I met a woman bent and old,
A toothless, wrinkled hag, shrunk with Life’s cold.
That sight makes good all sin, I cried, Bright Day!
If age were not and death—O! then—Here! Here!
Outside your door keep me not waiting, Dear!
IV
Upon our first great love-night, Heart of Mine,
You whispered in that golden speech of Spain,
“My home was Malaga beside the Main.”
’Twas there, I asked, where black the bunched grapes shine?
O sweet, sweet South, I cried, sweet South of thine!
A silence fell. We spoke no more again.
Within your eyes I saw an olden pain;
O sad, sad South, I thought, sad South of thine!
Upon my breast bunched black your bright curls lay—
Bacchante then and Pan were we that night;
Grape-God, I call you witness to the sight;
That night, Grape-God, beneath your mighty sway
Lay not upon my breast in love’s sweet pain
Black grapes from Malaga beside the Main?
V
You said: “To make more sweet that which will be,
Let’s play a part together, you and I.
See!—I’m a monk, who, in his garden high,
Doth fast and pray to banish things worldly.
Down there you come, sad faced, dreaming of me.
I feel that you ’twixt flowering trees draw nigh;
I look not lest your lips let love flame high,
But, rising,—thus—I bless you prayerfully.”
Señor!—that tone!—Those gestures strange yet stern!
Tell me, where did you learn them? Tell me true!
Great God, Señor, an unfrocked priest are you!
No, no! No, no!—Enough, your kisses burn—
To-night—I swear it!—you shall be denied,
Grief-stricken glooms o’er us—The Crucified.
VI
Upon my eyes like rain your kisses fall,
Soft rain that maketh to be sweet the Spring,
The time of fairest love’s first flowering,
When mating birds so softly call and call.
Like rain upon my eyes your kisses fall,
Bright rain the royal Summer’s crown to bring,
Soft rain upon shy trees that croon and swing,
Sweet bridal veil of mist that hideth all.
Kiss me not thus! No, no, not thus kiss me.
The storm’s kiss first!—when black the day suns grow
And winds nor height, depth, hell nor heaven know—
Yes, yes, the storm’s kiss first! Thus—thus—kiss me!
Unchain the whirlwinds of your wild desire
And blind me, blind me, with the lightning’s fire!
VII
But when I’m worn and weary and would rest,
And in my ears the storm sounds vaguely far,
The lightnings fireless as that far night star,
Then fold me in your arms, upon your breast.
O! fold me in your arms! There let me rest,
To watch, idly, the fleeing Storm-God’s car,
Rain-mist so soft it may not mark nor mar
The lily’s leaf—when sleep and dreams are best.
Then on my eyes like rain let kisses fall,
Soft rain that maketh to be sweet the Spring,
And Winter fields like pink pearls shimmering.
The bridal veil of mist fall over all!
From under, as shy crocuses do peep,
New love shall bud and blossom while I sleep.
VIII
Within a gloomy land our love did grow,
Within a city gray with mist and smoke
Whose roofs lone prairie levels roughly choke,
Where no bright, seaward slipping rivers flow,
Around us rose the din of toil and woe—
Straight church towers whence stern warring bell tones broke
With words of warning when their iron tongues spoke,—
Such was the city that our love did know!
Think you we saw it? No, no! This saw we—
A waving field where flame-like flowers bloom,
(That fateful flower of old Sicilian doom—
Great Demeter, we thought not then of thee!)
We plucked. We ate. The fruit was strangely sweet,
And hell and heaven opened at our feet.
IX
“Be at the opera”—you write—to-night—
The crimson rose I send on your breast wear,
My lips had blessed it ere I sent it where
They, too, have lain and learned love’s speech aright.
“I cannot wait”—you say—“till comes our night;
Tu esposo—I know, yes, he’ll be there,
But that I’ll suffer if you’ll grant me, Fair,
One glimpse of you. O! let me know. Write! Write!”
Yes, Sweet! and when the trumpets leap and sing,
And fiddle-bows rise, fall, like trees swaying
Beneath an angry storm when winds are strong,
Ear-dulled, the present blotted with the past,
My love shall rise and reach you, hold you fast,
And vanish with you on the wings of song!
X
What pictures do we see when memories frown
Alone and here together, Dearest One!
I first saw light beneath a pallid sun,
The northern stars upon my youth looked down.
You, where the earth wears best its flowery crown,
Where fiercest, mightiest, doth blaze the sun,
Not star-like to it was my pallid one,
The Southern Cross upon your youth looked down.
O! shed upon me all your blaze of lights,
Fill well my soul for what it missed of yore,
Enrich me ever with your flowery lore!
I can recall no more the northern nights!
I know when on my mouth is set your mouth
The sensuous, sweet savors of the South.
XI
There was a little garden that I knew
Far, far to north—where still my childhood stays—
The garden of my girlhood, of its Mays,
Where frail and strange, unreal, dream-flowers grew.
Within that little garden that I knew,
O! prim the beds were, straight and white the ways,
All simply made and plain for childhood days,
There little Love, white-winged, unspotted, flew.
Think you aught great there is for you I’ve done?
My Dream-Tree I have plundered of its toys
That grew within the garden of my joys!
In little paths where once sweet Love did run,
Roam wildly now the gaunt Wolves of Desire—
And blurred the ways, with dead flowers flecked—and mire.
XII
Unto that little garden sometimes, Love,
I hasten yet to—to—yes, to forget—
Tell all its quaintnesses again and let
Myself learn peace of her who knew not love.
Yes, yes, unto that garden sometimes, Love,
I hasten yet to—to—yes, to forget—
To feel its dear, deep calm again and let
Hover above my heart Youth’s white, white dove.
No, no!—you need not worry lest I stay,
Forget the lore that I of grief have learned,
The lore sin red upon my soul has burned—
Tell me why should you worry lest I stay?
Surely you’ve heard when of blood tigers taste,
Not seas can keep them from it—mountain—waste!
XIII
They say that they who’ve sinned this sin of ours
May never after death know aught of light;
Naught can once cleanse their souls, nor make them white,
Nor Lydian scents make sweet the sin-stained hours.
A gate whose whirling swords have lightning’s powers
To blast and burn flash outward with such might
The black and barren road is bleached to bright
That leads down, downward, where the darkness cowers.
Come, Sweet, lift up your eyes! Be not afraid.
Behold!—within that pit a giant rose,
Its million, million petals, hearts of those
Who sinned this sin of ours all undismayed,
So rich, colossal, glorious and fair
It dims the white sword-whirl of judgment there!
XIV
“Quare, dum licet, internos laetemur amantes;
Non satis est ullo tempore longus amor.”
Propertius
Your love has clothed me with a garment fair
That covers up all soil and smirch and sin,
From folded feet folds whitely to the chin
And hallows me as those the saints do wear.
O, trust me—I will keep it spotless, fair,
For this, your gracious gift, my dreams shall win
A purity serene, no more therein
May creep a false thought ever anywhere.
Yet underneath this love-robe—gift of thine—
I know that you’d not sinned this sin of mine
Nor broken sacred vows as I have done;
Yet judge me not too harshly, Dear, Dear One,
Than mortal women I have been most lone,
The heart must have a home! Let that atone.
XV
Do you recall the day when first we met?
In The Cathedral ’twas. The service o’er
Friends introduced us, passed, and said no more,
And we were left alone, strangers as yet.
A sad monastic gloom on you was set.
I sensed your thirst for life, more life, yet more—
And I, too, was athirst because I wore
The slave’s badge that so sharply helps to whet.
I went not home. I loathed the narrow streets.
I longed for country lanes, deep peace of air.
I left the black-roofed city, hastened where
I saw the hills. Upon them—O! so sweet—
Thick-banked stood trees like pink mist in the sun,
Aloud I cried:—Thank God! The Winter’s done!
XVI
We must be kinder to each other, Dear,
Than others are whose love by law is blest,
Slower to wound, cavil, think ill—grieve—lest
We break the iris band that binds us near!
We must be crueller to each other, Dear,
Than others are whose love by law is blest,
Quicker to know Truth’s shining scalpel’s best
And use it bravely. No blot can be here!
Have you thought where ’tis set, this great love-dower?
There! pendulous ’twixt sacrilege and shame,
Uncertain, floating, impotent to bring
A permanence. O! would ours were the power
God-like to make, create a soul, a name,
And touch it whitely with Life’s deathless wing!
XVII
You’ve heard how after some great victory
The Cæsars triumphing came gayly home,
Red-robed, gold palm-embroiderèd—to Rome—
Gods like unto, with glory good to see,
On cars charioted of ivory,
Through gates triumphal, flower-up-built to dome,
While at their feet the masses moaning roam
And they, joy-drunk, cry:—“Io Triompe!”
Thus, Love, at life’s high noon enter my heart!
(Not like one monkish bred, cringing with fear,
Black clad, furtive of eye for dangers near,)
Come as the Cæsars came! Be that your part,
Bright robed, triumphant, bold for victory,
And o’er my conquered soul cry—“Triompe!”
XVIII
You praised my speech to-day. You said I’d caught,
Wandering in many lands ’mong many men,
Colorful vowel richnesses learned then
Of many tongues. When first we met you thought
This gave me added charm, that thus I ought
Be not one woman—O! proud praise again!—
But many since I had their tongues and then
Their charm. Thus, thus you praised me who should not.
But now what think you I have learned of you?
The Tongue of Love! which I knew not before,
Nor can they learn it who o’er books do pore.
That taught you me. It sounds most sweetly too.
I learned it easily as children play
When first you said: “Yo, yo amo à te!”
XIX
From Peking westward thirty li there stands,
To one forth faring through the Tschengi-Thor,
The Lo-ku Bridge, buttressed, barred both sides o’er
With lions cunningly so wrought by hands
Long dead, no one who counts them lives, it stands
Recorded. Whoso tries, counts o’er and o’er,
May not cease counting, of aught else think more,
But goes mad dreaming of a lion that stands
Upon the Lo-ku Bridge. You said ’twas true.
And added softer—should life call me where
You are not, and can never be, O! there