A Proud Lady

Hate in the world’s hand
Can carve and set its seal
Like the strong blast of sand
Which cuts into steel.
I have seen how the finger of hate
Can mar and mould
Faces burned passionate
And frozen cold.
Sorrowful faces worn
As stone with rain,
Faces writhing with scorn
And sullen with pain.
But you have a proud face
Which the world cannot harm,
You have turned the pain to a grace
And the scorn to a charm.
You have taken the arrows and slings
Which prick and bruise
And fashioned them into wings
For the heels of your shoes.
From the world’s hand which tries
To tear you apart
You have stolen the falcon’s eyes
And the lion’s heart.
What has it done, this world,
With hard finger-tips,
But sweetly chiseled and curled
Your inscrutable lips?

by Elinor Wylie

A Strange Story

When I died on Berners Street
I remember well
That I had lights at head and feet
And a passing bell.
But when I died in Houndsditch
There came to lay me out
A washerwoman and a witch;
The rats ran about.
When I died in Holborn
In an old house and tall
I know the tapestry was torn
And hanging from the wall.
When I died in Marylebone
I was saying my prayers;
there I died all alone
Up four flights of stairs.
But when I died near Lincoln’s Inn
The small gold I had
Surrounded me with kith and kin
I died stark mad.
When I died in Bloomsbury
In the bend of your arm
At the end I died merry
And comforted and warm.

by Elinor Wylie

Address to My Soul

My soul, be not disturbed
By planetary war;
Remain securely orbed
In this contracted star.
Fear not, pathetic flame;
Your sustenance is doubt:
Glassed in translucent dream
They cannot stuff you out.
Wear water, or a mask
Of unapparent cloud;
Be brave and never ask
A more defunctive shroud.
The universal points
Are shrunk into a flower;
Between in delicate joints
Chaos keeps no power.
The pure integral form,
Austere and silver-dark,
Is balanced on the storm
In its predestined arc.
Small as a sphere of rain
It slides along the groove
Whose path is furrowed plain
Among the suns that move.
The shapes of April buds
Outlive the phantom year:
Upon the void at odds
The dewdrop falls severe.
Five-petalled flame, be cold:
Be firm, dissolving star:
Accept the stricter mould
That makes you singular.

by Elinor Wylie