Poetry Archives

Who was there had seen us
  Wouldn’t bid him run?
Heavy lay between us
  All our sires had done.

There he was, a-springing
  Of a pious race,
Setting hags a-swinging
  In a market-place;

Sowing turnips over
  Where the poppies lay;
Looking past the clover,
  Adding up the hay;

Shouting through the Spring song,
  Clumping down the sod;
Toadying, in sing-song,
  To a crabbed god.

There I was, that came of
  Folk of mud and name—
I that had my name of
  Them without a name.

Up and down a mountain
  Streeled my silly stock;
Passing by a fountain,
  Wringing at a rock;

Devil-gotten sinners,
  Throwing back their heads,
Fiddling for their dinners,
  Kissing for their beds.

Not a one had seen us
  Wouldn’t help him flee.
Angry ran between us
  Blood of him and me.

How shall I be mating
  Who have looked above—
Living for a hating,
  Dying of a love?