POETRY.
ALONE.
FROM my high window,
From my high window in a southern city, I peep through the slits of the shutters, Whose steps of light Span darkness like a ladder.
Throwing wide the shutters I let the streets into the silent room With sudden clatter ; Walk out upon the balcony Whose curving irons are bent
Like bows about to shoot—
Bows from which the mortal arrows Cast from dark eyes, dark-lashed And shadowed by mantillas, Shall in the evening Rain down upon men's hearts Paraded here, in southern climes, More openly.
But, at this early moment of the day, The balconies are empty ; Only the sun, still drowsy-fingered, Plucks, pizzicato, at the rails, Draws out of them faint music Of rain-washed air, Or, when each bell lolls out its idiot tongue, When Time lets drop his cruel scythe, They sing in sympathy.
The sun, then, plucks these irons, As, far below, That child Draws his stick along the railings.
The sound of it brings my eye down to him.
Oh heart, dry heart, It is yourself again How nearly are we come together I If, at this moment, One long ribbon was unfurled From me to him, I should be shown
Above, in a straight line—,
A logical growth, And yet, I wave, but he will not look up j I call, but he will not answer.
From where I stand The beauty of the early morning Suffocates me ; It is as if fingers closed round my, heart.
The light flows down the bills in rivulets, So you could gather it up in the cup of your hands, While pools, The cold eyes of the gods, Are cradled in those hollows.
Cool are the clouds, Anchored in the heaven ; Green as ice are they, To temper the heat in the valleys With arches of violet shadow. OSBERT SITWELL.
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