ning soul
Bludgeoning every sham . . .
O little ape, be glad that I
Can be the thing I am!

ANNE KNISH
_Opus 131_

I AM weary of salmon dawns
And of cinnamon sunsets;
Silver-grey and iron-grey
Of winter dusk and morn
Torture me; and in the amethystine shadows
Of snow, and in the mauve of curving clouds
Some poison has dwelling.

Ivory on a fan of Venice,
Black-pearl of a bowl of Japan,
Prismatic lustres of Phoenician glass,
Fawn-tinged embroideries from looms of Bagdad,
The green of ancient bronze, cinereous tinge
Of iron gods,--
These, and the saffron of old cerements,
Violet wine,
Zebra-striped onyx,
Are to me like the narrow walls of home
To the land-locked sailor.

I must have fire-brands!
I must have leaves!
I must have sea-deeps!

EMANUEL MORGAN
_Opus 16_

DEATH on a cross was not the blade
In Mary's heart . . .
For the mother of man and the son of the maid
Had walked one night apart,
When his beard was not yet grown--and, afraid,
She had seen his young words dart.

Between a mother and a son,
The guillotine . . .
It falls, it falls, and one by one,
Unseeing and unseen,
They face the great sharp shining ton
That time has eaten green.

Between the shoulder and the head
The guillotine must play
And cleave with clash unmerited
The generating day . . .
Till the separated parts, not dead,
Rise and walk away.

ANNE KNISH
_Opus 134_

LISTEN, my friend,
That you may understand me.--

In my earliest youth
I dreamed in hues volcanic.
I saw each day open
Like a curtain of flame.
Black slaves attended
My waking moments;
Three ebony slaves
Washed sleep from my white body.
Three ebony slaves
Around my ivory smoothness
Folded heavy robes
Of crimson and white.
And as I issued forth
Into the blue vault of the daylight
A grey ape pranced before me
And a leopard crept behind.

This was the state
Of my young heritage.
Scarlet as the voice of trumpets
Was the pageant of my days.
Can I accept now
The twilight?
And soon the dark, where all colors
Die?

Before I die, I will hold one last revel!
I will have golden cups and poppy curtains!--
And yet--

No! . . . In a black hall
The black table shall spread far down before me
And all the feasters garbed in black.
Then, at the feast's height, I arising
Shall with a gesture like the midnight
Throw back my midnight robe and suddenly stand