Arlea In Summer

Of all the loves whom I have known,
Both passionate and platonic,
From my most passionate alone
I ever refrained- is that not ironic?
But somehow, I was sure I had a duty
Not to trouble such untroubled beauty,
Not to try to make her my own.

Her name was Arlea; I still sing
Her name on nights I cannot sleep.
And my mind like a swallow takes wing,
Ever faithful to what makes me weep.
I land in a glade watered by tears,
Undimmed by the passing of the years-
In the center a single beautiful thing.

Her name was Arlea; I see her still,
Pausing with a stain on her white grown,
Her brown face marked by a sweat-rill.
On her head she wears a summer crown
Of braided leaves and wildflowers,
Sweet treats of the summer bowers-
Ah, yes, I can see my Arlea still!

She stood there, her brown hair shining,
Against her tanned skin like a tree
Whose leaves were the tresses entwining
A garland of salubrious ivy-
That was her neck, swan-like and slender.
Her fingers only added to the splendor
As they rose, the sweets of her hair mining.

But it is her eyes that, now I'm hoary,
Make me most regret that lost chance,
That I did not add a chapter to the story
Of what between us was coy romance.
Huge and dark, and blackberry pools,
That morn they shone like molten jewels-
Thine eyes, Arlea, were always thy glory!

She turned then, and saw me staring,
And a slow smile bloomed on her face.
I could not pretend to be uncaring
As I had been, refraining to embrace
Such perfect, swan-necked, lily-limbed wonder.
Such had her beauty done me to sunder
From the code that I bore, the grace.

And then- though it hurt, burned like ashes-
I turned away from her, to the glade.
I felt regret and shame pass like hot flashes
Over my eyes as they fixed on the jade
Grass before me, not the sweet features
I longed to kiss, let be my teachers
In a new way of living my heart's dashes.

Her hand touched my shoulder, faltering.
"Mina?" I heard her whisper softly.
But I stood there, my heart hardly haltering,
Believing her special, too beautiful, too lofty
For the likes of me. I heard her move away,
And she never came near me again that day.
I had reason to damn my poor psaltering.

She left that autumn, my Arlea so fair,
Left for the shore from our isolate isle,
Said she didn't know what she would do there,
But there she was going, to "stay a while."
I know now that it was my choice to flout
Her love and devotion; I had but to reach out,
And she would have deserted all care.

But even now, my hands will not caress
The fragile reminder of her swift returning.
My fingers flutter like butterflies, I confess,
Around the letter I once thought of burning,
If only to rid myself of this consuming pain.
But I cannot do so; mine Arlea comes again,
Comes, and- this time, will I undress?

Will I shed the confining cloak of beliefs
That alone the last time kept me from joy?
Will I find the courage to show her the sheafs
Of paper mine own, I once swore to destroy?
Will I show her the love-poems I've written,
All of them treating of passion forbidden-
Will I be able to tell her of my many griefs?

I do not know how the years have changed her;
I do not know if my heart without harm
Can approach her, or even feel a small stir.
Perhaps she returns with a girl on her arm,
A tender sweet lover, a radiant giver,
Whose feelings flow like a flood-swollen river.
Have I a right to still think of that summer?

Have I a right to hope and to tremble,
To think I might look in her eyes,
And this time find the courage not to dissemble,
To think that she might not me despise?
I can never know until her returning
Answers me, until my sweet yearning
Casts me on my knees before Arlea-temple.

Arlea, my love, I still sing myself to drowse
With the sound of thy name in the night.
I still see thee, with marvelous power to arouse,
Standing in the sweet summer light.
I find that of this swift balance I tire;
I will try some means to kindle the fire,
Some means to make thine heart rouse.

And who knows? Perhaps some stray sparks
Will make thee remember that glade.
And then I can replace the song of the larks,
And the carpet of too-perfect jade
In my memory with something more fair.
I can see the shine of the light on thine hair;
I will know when thy ship disembarks.