A Head

... Long did the artist gaze upon her head —

the proud head of the woman poet —

his dreaming glances kissing her pale face

with delicacy and contemplation:

between the page of her cheek and the brow,

and between her eyes and the nose,

alighting, content, upon the velvet neck...

"This head," he said,

"shall be made immortal in marble, beneath my chisel and my fingertips."

I shall know how to scatter the straying locks of hair

about your head —

a sprinkling of wild daisies —

the ear beneath them peeping like an infant crescent moon...

And I shall know how to bring the eyelids together

in a half-closing,

so that of your eyes' enchantment nothing shows but their lashes..

And I shall keep the brow thus... high,

defiant —

and oh, the quiver of the full lip above the finer chin!

And with a touch of splendor at the temples I shall complete the head;

as for the wonder of the body... that is for the fertile imagination!!

You shall be made immortal at my hands, in the veins

of the white marble —

a pulse of life....

a female... a poet...

You shall be immortal for all time,

the masterpiece of my art,

after I am folded away,

and after you are folded away...

And the artist's fingers went tending her head

with a graceful touch,

and for a moment the poet fancied

that in his touch there was some tenderness,

and that in his glances there was something deeper!...

Author of "The Earth Said," the verse epic that appeared recently

And tomorrow it will be said.. from among us rose Adonis —

a tree whose roots go deep into the earth, whose branches tower into the sky.

From others than us the spring hides itself, O Adonis —

from a people that has not stored the sweetest and dearest things in existence within the folds of its heart,

and has not given all this sweet and precious store — all of it — to the eyes of a poet,

to your eyes, O Adonis.

For where the light breaks free of them, there are hills of roses murmuring to the clouds,

and where the light spreads its carpets from them, there are heaps of violets embracing the soil.

And the sons of your people, O Adonis —

all of them.. all of them.. are braids of radiance vanishing into the ribs of the sun.

Is she of them, do you think, or are they of her?!

What does "the Earth say," and what does she tell,

O her faithful messenger?

And the Earth.. she has a message she kept hiding in her depths... grudging it even to her own surface...

afraid to lay it upon any one of mankind —

until you came, O Adonis.. its essence truth and goodness and beauty —

and she pressed it into your hands.. the message she has carried since the first setting-forth into life...

entrusting it to your heart.

And you.. and you, how faithful you were in conveying what "the Earth said" —

and how I would love every one of the sons of your people to read this "saying,"

so that we might all stand asking, eagerly:

When.. when will the message be fulfilled for us —

the message of the Earth...?

For you will never belong to any one political creed:

you are ours.. you belong to everyone whom the Earth has carried on her palms

and sent forth in pursuit of truth.

Until tomorrow, then, O Adonis.