out of this oubliette between the mountains

five valleys go, five passes like gates;

three of them black in shadow, two of them bright

with distant sunshine;

and sunshine fills one high valley bed,

green grass shining, and little white houses

like quartz crystals,

little, but distinct a way off.

why don't i go?

why do i crawl about this pot, this oubliette,

stupidly?

why don't i go?

but where?

if i come to a pine-wood, i can't say

now i am arrived!

what are so many straight trees to me!

sterzing

sunday afternoon in

italy

the man and the maid go side by side

with an interval of space between;

and his hands are awkward and want to hide,

she braves it out since she must be seen.

when some one passes he drops his head

shading his face in his black felt hat,

while the hard girl hardens; nothing is said,

there is nothing to wonder or cavil at.

alone on the open road again

with the mountain snows across the lake

flushing the afternoon, they are uncomfortable,

the loneliness daunts them, their stiff throats

ache.

and he sighs with relief when she parts from him;

her proud head held in its black silk scarf

gone under the archway, home, he can join

the men that lounge in a group on the wharf.

his evening is a flame of wine

among the eager, cordial men.

and she with her women hot and hard

moves at her ease again.

she is marked, she is singled out

for the fire:

the brand is upon him, look—you,

of desire.

they are chosen, ah, they are fated

for the fight!

champion her, all you women! men, menfolk

hold him your light!

nourish her, train her, harden her

women all!

fold him, be good to him, cherish him

men, ere he fall.

women, another champion!

this, men, is yours!

wreathe and enlap and anoint them

behind separate doors.

gargnano