‘He made the world to be a grassy road
Before her wandering feet.’
He brought her primroses in spring,
And wild, white roses in the summer,
The first ripe blackberries he found for her
And in the winter searched for mistletoe
And scarlet holly berries,
But still she never smiled at him.
He brought her emeralds, on golden chains,
Great looping strings of pearls,
Handfuls of rubies, garnets, topazes,
Massed, glittering heaps of living stones,
Buts still she never met his eyes.
He brought her feathers – white
And soft, from the swan’s broad breast,
Black from the crow’s wing, and
All the colours of the woods and fields,
And the grey sky above,
But she just let them fly.
He brought her silks and satins,
Glorious gowns in rainbow hues,
Or glowing like the sea at sunset,
Velvets as dark as midnight,
Lace like spiders’ webs,
But still she turned her face from him.
He brought her sea-glass,
Smoothed and clouded, and
A whispering heap of seashells,
Pink and white as sunrise, and
The scent of salt, and one
Grey sealskin. And she smiled,
And gazed at him. Kissed him
Just once – as light as sea-foam –
And then slipped away.
Another one for Jane Dougherty’s November with Yeats exploration.