POETRY.
POOR MARTHA.
BY white wool houses thick with sleep, Wherein pig-snouted small winds creep,
With our white muslin faces clean, We slip to see what can be seen.
Those rustling corn-sheaves the gold stars Drop grain between the window-bars Among dark leaves all velvety (So seem the shadows). And we see Crazed Martha tie up her brown hair With the moon's blue ribbons, stare
At candles that are lit in vain— They cannot penetrate her brain—
Their tinsel jargon seems to be Incomprehensibility To Martha's mind—though every word Of hers they echo, like that bird Of brilliant plumage whose words please The Indians by their bright-plumed seas.
The Fair's tunes bloom like myosotis, Smooth-perfumed stephanotis ; We children come, with twisted curls Like golden corn-sheaves or fat pearls,
Like Ondines in blue muslin dance Around her ; never once a glance
She gives us : " Can my love be true ?
He promised he would .bring blue Ribbons to tie up my brown hair, Ho promised me, both smooth and fair That he would dive through brightest plumes Of Indian seas for pearls, where gloomy The moon's blue ray ; in her sleeping-chamber Find me Thetis' fan of amber."
The candles preen and sleek their feathers ; " Pretty lady Sweet June weathers. ."
But silence now lies all around Poor Martha, since her love was drowned.
EDITH SITWELL.
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