THE RETURN
heedless alike of year ago or long ago,
and the endless history of her repeated love,
dares yet again to thrust above
the sad detritus of death and grow:
and speaks with the song-sparrow the sly shibboleth
of another season, another treason!
Lost memory, lost love, lost to return,
can we, too, not be brave like these, relearn
o
as if all were virginal and new,
the hawk and heart of "I" and "You"?
o
daring darling, can we not trust
once more that innocent sky
once more to break our hearts and die?
Comes now, comes she!
comes the unknown, the unpredictable,
she who
is
half spring, half summer,
between the lilac and the wrinkled apple blossom,
the unknown, all-unimagined newcomer,
birch foot, beech heart, myrtle hand,
and the indecipherable mind
and virgin bosom
and windflower grace
and timeless Etruscan pace
and the tiger's heart, cruel to be kind:
comes like the sunshot southwest wind
bidding the elm bough, soliciting
the fan of the iris under snow
for one more spring, one more spring:
while the hawk's wing
sickles the white-blossoming hill
with shadow of death, the scythe's shadow
shadowing the redwing into the meadow.
o
innocence in guilt, and guilt in innocence,
she stoops, she hovers,
fiercest and subtlest, and yes, tenderest of lovers,
the ruthless one
whose eye is
in
the sun!
585
