sword blades & poppy seed-第11章
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One candle drowns and the other gutters。 Is that the rain
which pads and patters； is it the wind through the winding entries
which chatters？
The state bed is very cold and he is alone。 How far from the wall
the arras is blown！
Christ's Death！ It is no storm which makes these little chuckling sounds。
By the Great Wounds of Holy Jesus； it is his dear lady； kissing and
clasping someone！ Through the sobbing storm he hears her love take form
and flutter out in words。 They prick into his ears and stun his desire；
which lies within him； hard and dead； like frozen fire。 And the little noise
never stops。
Drip hiss the rain drops。
He tears down the arras from before an inner chamber's bolted door。
II
The state bed shivers in the watery dawn。 Drip hiss fall the raindrops。
For the storm never stops。
On the velvet coverlet lie two bodies； stripped and fair in the cold；
grey air。 Drip hiss fall the blood…drops； for the bleeding never stops。
The bodies lie quietly。 At each side of the bed； on the floor； is a head。
A man's on this side； a woman's on that； and the red blood oozes along
the rush mat。
A wisp of paper is twisted carefully into the strands of the dead man's hair。
It says； 〃My Lord： Your wife's paramour has paid with his life
for the high favour。〃
Through the lady's silver fillet is wound another paper。 It reads；
〃Most noble Lord： Your wife's misdeeds are as a double…stranded
necklace of beads。 But I have engaged that； on your return；
she shall welcome you here。 She will not spurn your love as before；
you have still the best part of her。 Her blood was red； her body white；
they will both be here for your delight。 The soul inside was a lump of dirt；
I have rid you of that with a spurt of my sword point。 Good luck
to your pleasure。 She will be quite complaisant； my friend； I wager。〃
The end was a splashed flourish of ink。
Hark！ In the passage is heard the clink of armour； the tread of a heavy man。
The door bursts open and standing there； his thin hair wavering
in the glare of steely daylight； is my Lord of Clair。
Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog。 Drip hiss drip hiss
fall the raindrops。 Overhead hammers and chinks the rain which never stops。
The velvet coverlet is sodden and wet； yet the roof beams are tight。
Overhead； the coronet gleams with its blackened gold； winking and blinking。
Among the rushes three corpses are growing cold。
III
In the castle church you may see them stand；
Two sumptuous tombs on either hand
Of the choir； my Lord's and my Lady's； grand
In sculptured filigrees。 And where the transepts of the church expand；
A crusader； come from the Holy Land；
Lies with crossed legs and embroidered band。
The page's name became a brand
For shame。 He was buried in crawling sand；
After having been burnt by royal command。
The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde
The Bell in the convent tower swung。
High overhead the great sun hung；
A navel for the curving sky。
The air was a blue clarity。
Swallows flew；
And a cock crew。
The iron clanging sank through the light air；
Rustled over with blowing branches。 A flare
Of spotted green； and a snake had gone
Into the bed where the snowdrops shone
In green new…started；
Their white bells parted。
Two by two； in a long brown line；
The nuns were walking to breathe the fine
Bright April air。 They must go in soon
And work at their tasks all the afternoon。
But this time is theirs！
They walk in pairs。
First comes the Abbess； preoccupied
And slow； as a woman often tried；
With her temper in bond。 Then the oldest nun。
Then younger and younger； until the last one
Has a laugh on her lips；
And fairly skips。
They wind about the gravel walks
And all the long line buzzes and talks。
They step in time to the ringing bell；
With scarcely a shadow。 The sun is well
In the core of a sky
Domed silverly。
Sister Marguerite said： 〃The pears will soon bud。〃
Sister Angelique said she must get her spud
And free the earth round the jasmine roots。
Sister Veronique said： 〃Oh； look at those shoots！
There's a crocus up；
With a purple cup。〃
But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all；
She looked up and down the old grey wall
To see if a lizard were basking there。
She looked across the garden to where
A sycamore
Flanked the garden door。
She was restless； although her little feet danced；
And quite unsatisfied； for it chanced
Her morning's work had hung in her mind
And would not take form。 She could not find
The beautifulness
For the Virgin's dress。
Should it be of pink； or damasked blue？
Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through？
Should it be banded with yellow and white
Roses； or sparked like a frosty night？
Or a crimson sheen
Over some sort of green？
But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new
In all the garden； no single hue
So lovely or so marvellous
That its use would not seem impious。
So on she walked；
And the others talked。
Sister Elisabeth edged away
From what her companion had to say；
For Sister Marthe saw the world in little；
She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle。
She did plain stitching
And worked in the kitchen。
〃Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last；
I told her so this Friday past。
I must speak to her before Compline。〃
Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine。
The other nun sighed；
With her pleasure quite dried。
Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out：
〃The snowdrops are blooming！〃 They turned about。
The little white cups bent over the ground；
And in among the light stems wound
A crested snake；
With his eyes awake。
His body was green with a metal brightness
Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness；
And all down his curling length were disks；
Evil vermilion asterisks；
They paled and flooded
As wounds fresh…blooded。
His crest was amber glittered with blue；
And opaque so the sun came shining through。
It seemed a crown with fiery points。
When he quivered all down his scaly joints；
From every slot
The sparkles shot。
The nuns huddled tightly together； fear
Catching their senses。 But Clotilde must peer
More closely at the beautiful snake；
She seemed entranced and eased。 Could she make
Colours so rare；
The dress were there。
The Abbess shook off her lethargy。
〃Sisters； we will walk on；〃 said she。
Sidling away from the snowdrop bed；
The line curved forwards； the Abbess ahead。
Only Clotilde
Was the last to yield。
When the recreation hour was done
Each went in to her task。 Alone
In the library； with its great north light；
Clotilde wrought at an exquisite
Wreath of flowers
For her Book of Hours。
She twined the little crocus blooms
With snowdrops and daffodils； the glooms
Of laurel leaves were interwoven
With Stars…of…Bethlehem； and cloven
Fritillaries；
Whose colour varies。
They framed the picture she had made；
Half…delighted and half…afraid。
In a courtyard with a lozenged floor
The Virgin watched； and through the arched door
The angel came
Like a springing flame。
His wings were dipped in violet fire；
His limbs were strung to holy desire。
He lowered his head and passed under the arch；
And the air seemed beating a solemn march。
The Virgin waited
With eyes dilated。
Her face was quiet and innocent；
And beautiful with her strange assent。
A silver thread about her head
Her halo was poised。 But in the stead
Of her gown； there remained
The vellum； unstained。
Clotilde painted the flowers patiently；
Lingering over each tint and dye。
She could spend great pains； now she had seen
That curious； unimagined green。
A colour so strange
It had seemed to change。
She thought it had altered while she gazed。
At first it had been simple green； then glazed
All over with twisting flames； each spot
A molten colour； trembling and hot；
And every eye
Seemed to liquefy。
She had made a plan； and her spirits danced。
After all； she had only glanced
At that wonderful snake； and she must know
Just what hues made the creature throw
Those splashes and sprays
Of prismed rays。
When evening prayers were sung and said；
The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed。
And soon in the convent there was no light；
For the moon did not rise until late that night；
Only the shine
Of the lamp at the shrine。
Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets。
Her heart shook her body with its beats。
She could not see till the moon should rise；
So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes
On the window…square
Till light should be there。
The faintest shadow of a branch
Fell on the floor。 Clotilde； grown staunch
With solemn purpose； softly rose
And fluttered down between the rows
Of sleeping nuns。
She almost runs。
She must go out through the little side door
Lest the nuns who were always praying before
The Virgin's altar should hear her pass。
She pushed the bolts； and over the grass
The red moon's brim
Mounted its rim。
Her shadow crept up the convent wall
As she swiftly left it； over all
The garden lay the level glow
Of a moon coming up； very big and slow。
The gravel glistened。
She stopped and listened。
It was still； and the moonlight was getting clearer。
She laughed a little； but she felt queerer
Than ever before。 The snowdrop bed
Was reached and she bent down her head。
On the striped ground
The snake was wound。
For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm；
Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm。
She thought she heard steps； she must be quick。
She darted her hand out； and seized the thick
Wriggling slime；
Only just in time。
The old gardener came muttering down the path；
And his shadow fell like a broad； black swath；
And covered Clotilde and the angry snake。
He bit her； but what difference did that make！
The Virgin should dress
In his loveliness。
The gardener was covering his new…set plants
For the night was chilly； and nothing daunts
Your lover of growing things。 He spied
Something to do and turned aside；
And the moonlight streamed
On Clotilde； and gleamed。
His business finished the gardener rose。
He shook and swore； for the moonlight shows
A girl with a fire…tongued serpent； she
Grasping him； laughing； while quietly
Her eyes are weeping。
Is he sleeping？
He thinks it is some holy vision；
Brushes that aside and with decision
Jumps and hits the snake wi
