can forgive you
That you never believed
My love!

Argolis

Like sun on grasses
Warming to life
Quaint beetles, curious weeds,
Till earth awakens, pregnant beneath its rays--
So came the shepherds down to Argolis.

As nameless trees
Cast cloud-grey shadows there
On moon-pale, tarnished snow,
Till snow and shadow are lost,
Alike confused and forgotten
Among the withered reeds--
So lies their memory across its heart.

St. Faith's Eve

We stood together on a balcony
An hour when the night
Died into blankness,
And light mist
Curling beneath us, hid the earth,
And the cold, unburied stars
Drew further into space...

I turned to meet your eyes
And saw
Like a light, rosy veil
Your flesh sink gently down
Leaving only the simple skeleton
And a white voice which said:
"This still is I,
Do you love me
Now?"

Quietly, and without sadness
I looked upon you,
For comfort blindly reached my soul
And primitive beauty.
Without passion, without fervour,
I spoke at last:
"Somehow Faith
Shines from your empty eye-holes,
And Truth
Speaks mutely from your fleshless jaws.
I choose your skeleton to lie with
In the peaceful bed of earth
Through all the dreamless, mornless, utter night!"

Poems of Elijah Hay

The Golden Stag

O hungry hearted ones, sharp-limbed, keen-eyed,
Let me have place!
I too would ride
On your fantastic chase.

Your hunger is a silver hunting horn,
I heard it sweep
The frozen, peaceful morn:
Its note bit me from sleep.

I will ride with you, hunters, even I,
Toward a far hill
To see the golden stag against the sky
Uncaptured still.

To Anne Knish

Madam, you intrigue me!

I have come this far
Cautiously sneezing
Along the dusty highroad of convention,
But now it leads no farther toward you.

Today
I have reached the cross roads--
A weather-beaten sign-board
Blazons undecipherable wisdom
Of which the arrow-heads, even,
Have been effaced.

Eastward, it leads through cultivated fields
Of intellectual fodder,
Where well-fed cattle, herding together,
Browse content:
Are you of these?

Westward, is a lane, hedge-bordered,
Shady, and of gentle indirection,
In May, a bower of sentimental bloom,
But this November weather
Betrays its destiny, the poultry yard
Where g