Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1921/Prelude
PRELUDE
He speaks Open your eyes. I have never seen them.
She answers I am afraid to open my eyes. . . . Be content to look upon my hands,
He speaks Your hands are moist and gentle, Your hands are long and slow And smooth as apples. Your hands are restful and far distant As nude hills beyond hot plains. Your hands are tender as young clover leaves. I know the colour of your eyes. They are grey of unripe peaches, And silent green of peridot Made dumb with stars. Open your eyes. I have never seen them.
She answers I am afraid to open my eyes. . . . Be content to look upon my throat.
He speaks Your throat is white as an Egyptian moth And curves like a temple bell. Your throat glistens like oak leaves And is cool as September wind, Cooler than fresh earth. I know the colour of your eyes. They are blue as larkspur And shimmer more heedlessly Than snow on blossoming orchards. Open your eyes. I have never seen them.
She answers I am afraid to open my eyes.
He speaks Are they as black as trees at night? Are there wings of sun within them, Fluttering at the candle of your thoughts? Are they pale brown as tassels of summer corn? Are they gold as Venetian sails? Open your eyes,
She answers I am afraid to open my eyes. With them closed I see forests pillared like the streets Of ancient Antioch. I see mountains Transparent in the evening sun As the yellow sarong of an Indian princess.
I know secrets so delicate, They would shatter beneath gossamer. There is forgotten fragrance in my nostrils. Weighty and vivid music sags above me. Can you hear it? I feel distances without horizon, And depths so great That they are heights.
He speaks Open your eyes.
She answers Would life still be Resounding days of singing columns, Tall nights of wistful towers? And would the sweet, immeasurable earth Chant beneath my feet? Could I still sleep beside the moon And wake to silence coming like a flock of swans Upon my consciousness?
If I should . . . open my eyes?
The MeasureHildegarde Flanner