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Title: A silver pool
Author: Beulah Field
Release date: October 20, 2025 [eBook #77093]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Moffat, Yard and company, 1922
Credits: Aaron Adrignola, Terry Jeffress, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SILVER POOL ***
This ebook was created in honor of
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A SILVER POOL
A SILVER POOL
_by_
_BEULAH FIELD_
[Illustration: Publisher’s Colophon]
NEW YORK
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
1922
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
INSPIRATION 9
“BEGGAR-MAN, THIEF” 10
CARNIVAL 11
BRANDED 12
FOR AN ELIZABETHAN GARLAND 13
WHEN I REMEMBER 14
THE WAYFARER 15
PIERROT 16
TO LY-Y-HANE 17-18
WIND OF THE SEA 19
PERHAPS 20
IN THE STREET OF PAINTED FLOWERS 21-22
MYSTERY 23
WATCH-FIRES 24
TOKENS 25
CAMEO 26
BLUE FLAMES AND FLOWERS 27
THE LAW 28
MIRACLE 29
VALUES 30
FAME 31
RAINBOW 32
GLASS BEADS 33
WILLOWS 34
THE DEAD LOVER 35
LITTLE WHITE GATE 36
IMMORTAL 37
MY COMMUNION 38
STARS 39
DISAPPOINTMENTS 40
INTERLUDE 41
TO MY FATHER 42
CONFESSIONAL 43
RECOMPENSE 44
MOCKERY 45
REBELLION 46
THE MESSENGER 47
“NEEDLES AND PINS” 48
TO JUNE 49
TO CONGDON 50
TO CONGDON
INSPIRATION
I bridled my soul in its temple,
Waiting a while,
Till I knew the peace of a tempered touch,
And changeless smile.
Then I made my heart a silver pool
Of melody,
And stars came down from the sky at night
And bathed in me.
“BEGGAR-MAN, THIEF”
A beggar on the edge of town
Looked up and smiled at me,
And offered for the coin I held,
A seedling laurel tree.
A merchant in the market-place,
A laughing, lordly knave,
Filled my hands with tarnished gems,
And took the coin I gave.
If I could find that beggar-man,
I’d give to him my soul,
If he would share his bread with me,
And coppers from his bowl.
CARNIVAL
I gave a rose to a dancing girl,
She did not know
It was tribute I paid to a joy,
Dead long ago.
I sang my song in the market-place,
They did not hear
I was challenging love with a laugh,
And grief and fear.
Life danced on my heart with careless feet,
And never knew
The beauty it gave in gift to me,
Was tied with rue.
I walked the ways of a heedless world,
And found it mad,
So, now I drift in the wake of dreams,
And I am glad.
BRANDED
I have found me a darkling mistress,
Who is all my need and desire;
Her slave in a willing bondage,
I bathe in her opal fire.
She has given me gorgeous dawns
From the rim of her saffron seas;
There is joy in the burning wind
That comes from her fronded keys.
I know the grip of her brilliant days,
And the scorching spell of her nights,
When pagan gods seduce me
With the lure of their heathen rites.
I know the call of her hard, white roads,
The choking heat of her rains,
And I laugh in my soul with God,
At the lash of her hurricanes.
I have dipped in her amethyst bowl,
And painted me splendid dreams,
But I know the clutch of a dreadful fear,
When her crawling jungle screams.
I have felt the kiss of her fever,
That she hides in her tainted breath,
And have heard the roll of her drums,
When they beat their songs of death.
I have trailed with her treacherous spawn,
And sinned with her exiled band;
I am tuned to her siren voice,
And seared with her vicious brand.
I know the taste of her poisoned bread,
I am drunk with her evil wine,
But I am in thrall to her Cross,
Since she marked me with its Sign.
FOR AN ELIZABETHAN GARLAND
It is content I give to you,
And you?
You give me love.
But I would have the sweet content,
And you?
Would you have love?
WHEN I REMEMBER
You never come and speak to me when I am glad,
But only if the flowers in my garden droop with rain,
And when the sunlight runs away from skies gone mad,
Then I am hushed, and hear your voice again.
Although I light my lamp and bar the door,
I feel your presence crowding, more and more,
Until I crouch among the shadows on the floor,
And watch my memories dance their dance of pain.
THE WAYFARER
Only the wind from the Seven Hills
Can mate with the heart of me,
And the mist, adrift on the cliffs at night,
That blows from the dusky sea.
Only the song of the flying stars
Can reach to my muted soul,
And speed my feet on the wild, free track
That swings from Pole to Pole.
I spell my lore from the sand of dreams,
I sleep by eternal meres,
My stirrup-cup is the kiss of dawn,
My hearth is the boundless spheres.
PIERROT
Pierrot came and watched me
Sewing on my seam,
And handed me gay, silken threads,
Broken from a dream.
He helped me trim the lantern
That hangs beside my door,
And brought me petaled thoughts
To sprinkle on the floor.
He picked a rose and left me,
In the shadowed light,
But I found the gate ajar,
Swinging in the night.
Then I ran and gathered stars,
From the hollows of the sea,
And pinned them on my breast--
Pierrot called to me.
TO LY-Y-HANE
_Chinese Poetess, 12th Century A. D._[1]
Once I heard a singing wind,
Across a still lagoon,
I thought a thousand bells of jade
Were swinging in the moon.
And once, I felt soft petals
Fall from a flowering quince,
And trembled when I half divined
Your song, that died long since.
Above the dread and somber beat
Of mighty, dragon wings,
Perhaps my quiet heart will hear
Your lute of silver strings.
[1]
_LY-Y-HANE_
LY-Y-HANE _lived during the Song Dynasty, in the 12th century of our
era. She is admired, not only as a clever and graceful composer of
verses, but as a superior intellect and a true scholar, accustomed to
all the minutiae and intricacies of the art of poetry._
_The incurable wound of her heart, bleeding in solitude, is practically
the only subject with which she deals._
_As far as can be known, the love that devours this Chinese Sappho is
ignored by him who inspires it._
_One might say she was a flower become enamoured of a bird. The
changing seasons are the only events, the objects that adorn her home
the only evidences of a life consecrated to the expression of a single
sentiment._
_She lived entombed with her suffering, hoping never to be deprived of
it or cured, and she named in advance the volume that posterity would
perhaps collect of all her scattered verses: “The Debris of My Heart.”_
From _The Book of Jade_. (Translated by James Whittall.)
WIND OF THE SEA
The Wind of the Sea is my turbulent lover,
When he gathers me close and kisses my face,
I rise to the zenith, there to discover
Peace, in surrender to his fierce embrace;
He holds me and folds me in whirlpools of light,
Then lulls me to sleep, in his arms, with the night.
PERHAPS
It must be hard to be the Moon,
And weary of the sky;
Although I weary of my path,
Someday I can die,
But then perhaps I’ll trail with her,
And weary of the sky!
IN THE STREET OF PAINTED FLOWERS
When will the whirl of this wheel be done?
Does the Spinner dream, and my shroud unspun?
I am spent with the lust of greedy nights,
The fitful flame, and greying lights
Masking joy, in this devil’s dance,
That has tripped my feet on the road of Chance.
My song is hushed, and once it sped,
As water ripples the river’s bed,
Through laughing days in the gay bazars,
And freed my soul beneath the stars.
Now I am bought, as then I was sold,
But Allah witness, this is not gold,
But tinsel coin, that eats my heart,
And sets me aside, a thing apart.
Does Heaven sleep, that it lets me be,
And blinds my eyes, that I may not see
The sun, that came to kiss my cheek
When I stepped from my tent to the waiting Sheik?
I am sick for the sound of camels’ feet
Padding their way through the languid heat,
The scent of cool on the evening air,
And the grip of the muezzin’s call to prayer.
In those desert nights, where the shadows clung
To the blowing sand, that swirled and stung,
When my lord bent down and I knew his lips,
I was fulfilled to my finger tips.
Then, I was slave to a king, at least,
Now, I am slave to a furtive beast.
Did Allah mock, when he stilled my breath,
Then called me back from the paths of death,
To dance to the tune of reeling spheres,
With only a dream to bridge the years?
Ash is the flame of my painted shell,
I have no heart save the desert’s spell,
Mine is the fugitive soul of a slave,
And I would go back to my sand-swept grave.
MYSTERY
I bear on my breast the touch and sign
Of God and His oriflamme,
But only the somber eyes of Death
Can tell me who I am.
WATCH-FIRES
I care not if the touch of Time
Destroys the outer garment of my heart,
For deep within, steadfast, a living fire,
Love burns, and guards your shrine apart.
I care not if Death’s borders hold
A splendid peace, deep as an unshoaled sea,
I count peace only in the quiet joy
That comes, when you are glad with me.
I care not if the ruthless years
Shadow my soul, in passing on their flight,
If, through the devastating dark, I know
Your love, a tidal-wave of light.
TOKENS
I built a little fire yesterday at dusk,
To burn the gifts of all my broken years,
And at the last I tossed upon the flames,
The crystalled drops, that once were falling tears.
When morning came, I gathered all the ashes up,
Then swept my hearth, to make it clean again,
And found, within a crevice of the stones,
A jewel, that I knew had once been pain.
CAMEO
A little room, a dream-lit hearth,
Rosemary in a bowl of jade;
Budding orchard, thrush’s song,
A golden morning, dappled shade.
A steel-blue sea, the wind’s high will,
A red sun dropping down the sky,
Purple shadows on the dunes,
Upon the road, just you and I.
BLUE FLAMES AND FLOWERS
Blue flames, shining in my heart--
Twice lovely stars,
Dear lips, folded close with mine,
Sweet as scented jars,
If a myriad scarlet flowers,
In a jasper bowl,
Distilled to leaping fires,
Could weld us soul to soul,
I would go across the heavens,
After night had gone,
And gather for you dreams,
In the gardens of the dawn.
THE LAW
Out of the dark of a night of rain,
Day has flowered to light again;
And from the silence the ages long,
Has come the joy of a wood-bird’s song.
Broken souls in a barren vale,
Created the need for a Holy Grail;
And blasphemous sin painted for me,
The pale, red bloom of the Judas tree.
The costly price of hallowed tears
Has sown the wastes through countless years;
And over a crimson, riven sod
Lies a clear, white road that leads to God.
MIRACLE
It is so long ago I lived,
Holding back the hours
That sped through days of golden light,
And brought me laughing showers.
It is so long ago I died
To shut my heart from pain,
And yet, you reach your hands to me,
And bid me love again.
VALUES
I hear you crying for the Moon,
When she drifts proudly by,
And see you reaching for the wealth,
She scatters in the sky.
While I crave only strands of gold
That fringe your melody,
And moon-flowers growing in my heart,
When you are kind to me.
FAME
I lay on the edge of desert sands,
And watched It dance;
Mirage was painted before my eyes,
With brush of chance.
I followed the track of the Phantom
Down to the sea,
And found that only a chill, spent wind
Had called to me.
RAINBOW
There was a house of many rooms,
Windows and walls and doors,
Where shadows etched the ceilings,
And crept across the floors.
There sunlight only flickered,
And seemed a wanton ghost
Lavishing an empty feast,
Upon a motley host.
When I left that changeling home,
I hid my ragged scars,
Then bound my heart with singing days,
And night-time climbed the stars.
GLASS BEADS
I was a mendicant, begging my bread
From pilgrims shouting the dawn,
And they gave me thorns that tore my robe,
And took my prayers in pawn.
But now, outside the Temple door,
I stand and let them pass;
While I watch for the sun on the Eastern hills,
They fumble beads of glass.
WILLOWS
When I loitered on the paths
Of gay and vivid hours,
My songs all ran away and hid,
And seemed afraid of flowers.
But in among the shadows,
Beneath the willow tree,
All my little unsung songs
Come singing back to me.
THE DEAD LOVER
You say I am dead, that my being
Has passed with intangible dreams;
You hold me a shadow of shadows,
One moat in myriad beams.
But I am the yield of the harvest,
Astir in the ripening corn;
My voice is the wind of the forest,
I breathe and impregnate the dawn.
I spring from the womb of the ocean,
And rise in its flying foam,
Till I merge with the quickening rain
That falls on the fertile loam.
Dear of my heart, when the moonlight
Comes dusting the shimmering grass,
You may lie unveiled in your bridal,
My lips are on yours as I pass.
You say I am dead, that communion
Has spilled from our sacrament bowl,
Nay, Love, I am seed of Creation,
Immutable flame with the Whole.
LITTLE WHITE GATE
Little painted, wooden gate,
Swinging in and out,
Crickets chirping in the grass,
Honey-bees about;
Hollyhocks and marigolds
Laughing in the sun,
Where quiet pools of shadows
Ripple, one by one;
Friendly glow of lamplight
Across the window sill.
From the dark a plaintive voice
Calling “Whippoor-will.”
Moonlight trailing up the path
Draperies of foam,
Spell for me contentment,
And the peace of home.
IMMORTAL
Was he king or a bonded slave?
The beauty he sang still sings,
Vibrant as falling stars
In the path of radiant wings.
Does he sleep where the laurel grows?
Did he beg his cup and his bread?
He left the sign of his joy,
And he lives with the mighty dead.
Marked by the print of his feet,
The dust of this ancient floor
Glows, spun-flame in the dark,
What matters the name that he bore!
MY COMMUNION
Cupped in the hollow of your hands,
You hold my hidden fears,
My faith, the songs within my joy,
And all my tears.
Within the chalice of your heart,
There brims compassion’s mead,
Bounty of foaming drink for me
To quench my need.
I grave the pattern of my love
Upon your spirit’s bowl,
And in the splendour of your wine,
I steep my soul.
STARS
When I watch a pale, green sky,
At night, upon the hills,
I wonder if my garden bears
Such blowing daffodils;
And if the lustre of my dreams
Comes from those amber rills.
DISAPPOINTMENTS
In the Valley of Nadir lies a deep, black pool,
And it mirrors only rainy harvest moons;
In the fringes of its grasses are little bleached, white bones,
And broken, faded ribbons, from gaudy, pricked balloons.
Restless shadows stumble ’round it, through the hot nights and the cool,
And their crippled feet are weighted down with stones;
Sometimes an echo whispers of golden, summer noons,
But you only hear the wind there, when it moans.
INTERLUDE
When Night-time stoops to lay her hands
Upon my tired eyes,
And strings her silver lanterns
Across the curtained skies,
Reflected in the mirror,
She holds above my sleep--
I see a golden lotus,
She bids me pick and keep.
Then, drugged, my soul goes speeding
Across a dream-swept plain,
Until I stumble back at dawn,
To break my heart again.
TO MY FATHER
Although you touched my life so brief a time,
Because of you, I tread the stressful years
With courage, patterned from your quiet strength,
And laughter tempering my meed of tears.
Because of you, I hold and reverence books,
High in my heart, as is my creed of song,
And to the imprint of your kindliness,
The measure of my love and faith belong.
Because you held my hand that little while,
I know a joy in all green, growing things,
And rapture, when strong music breaks, and soars
A veil of flame on iridescent wings.
Your love has framed the window of my life,
And as I watch the twilight creeping through,
I know whatever sacraments I share
With peace and beauty, are because of you.
CONFESSIONAL
Red fire of dawn burning in the sky,
Leaping from the purple embers of the night,
A sovereign glory in a sapphire cup,
This is my altar light.
Rising from an early-kindled hearth,
A pungent veil of smoke spirals in the air,
And seems the incense drifting on my heart,
That sanctifies my prayer.
From beyond uncharted seas the wind,
Like pilgrim priest, comes to bless the waking sod,
And shrives me in my penitence, then bears
My sorrow up to God.
RECOMPENSE
Though Hunger shuffles up the path,
And leaves his pack of scars,
When songs sweep through my heart--
Bright sails on golden spars,
I breathe the dust of lilies,
Asleep among the stars.
MOCKERY
I dreamed Love came with golden thong,
And bound me to his wrist,
Then swept me out on winds of flame,
Through space the sun had kissed.
Instead, Love came in jester’s garb,
Flaunting his cap and bells,
And led me to a far, strange tent,
Beside dead, desert wells.
REBELLION
If Death should scatter poppy-dust
Across my path tonight,
Then wrap me in his cold, dark cloak,
And shut me from the light.
If he should point a strange, still way,
How could I bear to go,
And never feel again the sun,
Nor watch a primrose grow?
THE MESSENGER
When you walk a lonely road,
Hand in hand with pain,
Do you see the broken leaves,
Trodden by the rain?
My heart was like a folded leaf,
On an April tree;
Listen to the rain at night,
And know your hurt to me.
“NEEDLES AND PINS”
Goblins came and took me
Long ago,
Tossed me up and down the years,
To and fro.
Drove me to surrender
All my faith,
And chuckled when they bound me
To a wraith.
But came a time the goblins
Lost their zest
For planting stones within my heart,
As a jest.
They left me in the garden
With the weeds,
And there I found my faith again,
Sowing seeds.
TO JUNE
June dreams.
The twilight world’s a-hush,
The meadows flame with colors from a master’s brush,
And in my garden roses droop and blush;
June sleeps and dreams.
The singing wind blows gently through her sleep,
While friendly, fragrant shadows keep
Their vigils, beautiful and deep,
With June, who dreams.
Communion with my watching heart I hold,
Until the day comes to unfold
Her laughing hours, steeped in gold,
For June, who dreams.
TO CONGDON
When I look among the shadows in my soul,
I am glad for every scar and sin;
(Oh, little child, upon the threshold of my heart, Stay within!)
I will mould to golden-tinted globes of pearl,
My rebellion, with each bruising shame,
And kindled from my dark, their light will keep your dreams
Star-frost and flame.
Then I will mend all broken songs of mine,
To thread them on a many-colored string,
That you may count them, as you lean against my heart,
And learn to sing.
Transcriber’s Notes
• Italics represented with surrounding _underscores_.
• Small caps converted to ALL CAPS.
• Obvious typographic errors silently corrected.
• Footnote numbered and consolidated to the end of the relevant poem.
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