Sarah Piatt

Selected Poems

"The Palace Burner"
"After Her First Party"
"The Fancy Ball"
"A Pique At Parting"
"Her Word Of Reproach"
"Her Blindness In Grief"

The Palace Burner

(A Picture in a Newspaper)

She has been burning palaces. "To see
The sparks look pretty in the wind?" Well, yes--
And something more. But women brave as she
Leave much for cowards, such as I, to guess.

But this is old, so old that everything
Is ashes here--the woman and the rest.
Two years are--oh! so long. Now you may bring
Some newer pictures. You like this one best?

You wish that you had lived in Paris then?--
You would have loved to burn a palace too?
But they had guns in France, and Christian men
Shot wicked little Communists like you.

You would have burned the palace?-- Just because
You did not live in it yourself? Oh! why
Have I not taught you to respect the laws?
You would have burned the palace--would not I?

Would I? Go to your play. Would I, indeed?
I? Does the boy not know my soul to be
Languid and worldly, with a dainty need
For light and music? Yet he questions me.

Can he have seen my soul more near than I?
Ah! in the dusk and distance sweet she seems,
With lips to kiss away a baby's cry,
Hands fit for flowers, and eyes for tears and dreams.

Can he have seen my soul? And could she wear
Such utter life upon a dying face:
Such unappealing, beautiful despair:
Such garments--soon to be a shroud--with grace?

Has she a charm so calm that it could breathe
In damp, low places, till some frightened hour;
Then start, like a fair, subtle snake, and wreathe
A stinging poison with a shadowy power?

Would I burn palaces? The child has seen
In this fierce creature of the Commune here,
So bright with bitterness and so serene,
A being finer than my soul, I fear.

After Her First Party

"It was just lovely, and, mamma, my dress
Was much the prettiest there, the boys all said:
They said that I looked--my best. I guess
These ribbons suited me. You see, that red,
You did not fancy, lighted up so well.
Somebody told me I was quite a belle.

"I wish you didn't want me to wear white,
With just a flower or two. Rose wears such things.
They're so old-fashioned. She was such a fright!
I wish that I had fifty diamond rings--
I'd wear them all at once! I'd almost paint,
Before I'd look like Rose. She's such a saint."

"I thought you were the best of friends." "We are--
Only we hate each other! That is what
The best of friends do--in our school. How far
Away you look! Forgive me. I forgot.
I've made you sad. I'll love the whole world too,
I guess mamma--when I'm as old as you!

"Why don't you listen mamma? You must be
Thinking of Adam. Here's a bud he gave
You once in Eden--shut up here, you see,
In this old book!" "That grew upon a grave."
"Oh, I'll not touch it, then. I wish that pearls
Would grow on trees--but not for other girls.

"Now, mamma, please to hear me to the end.
The handsomest of all the boys last night
Looked like that picture of--your brother's friend.
He hardly spoke to Rose. (Oh, I'm not quite
An angel yet. I shall be, I suppose,
Sometime.) I'm glad he hardly spoke to Rose.

"I wonder, mamma, did you ever go
To a first party. And what did you wear?
--How odd you must have looked! But tell me, though,
About your dress. How many girls were there?"
"Fifty, perhaps." "There were some boys, I'd guess?"
"Yes, there was one"-- "And he was handsome?" "Yes."

"Where is he now, do you think?" "I do not know.
(In some sweet foreign country, it may be,
Among the palms.") "He might have written, though,
In all these years." "He cannot write." "I see.
What a strange party! Fifty girls--oh dear!
And one boy--and he couldn't write? How queer!"

The Fancy Ball

As Morning you'd have me rise
On that shining world of art;
You forget: I have too much dark in my eyes--
And too much dark in my heart.

"Then go as the Night--in June;
Pass, dreamily, by the crowd,
With jewels to mock the stars and the moon,
And shadowy robes like cloud.

"Or as Spring, with a spray in your hair
Of blossoms as yet unblown;
It will suit you well, for our youth should wear
The bloom in the bud alone.

"Or drift from the outer gloom
With the sfot white silence of Snow:"
I should melt myself with the warm, close room--
Or my own life's burning.  No.

"Then fly through the glitter and mirth
As a Bird of Paradise:"
Nay, the waters I drink have touch'd the earth;
I breathe no summer of spice.

"Then--"  Hush: if  I go at all,
(It will make them stare and shrink,
It will look so strange at a Fancy Ball),
I will go as--Myself, I think!

A Pique At Parting

Why, sir, as to that--I did not know it was time for the moon to rise,
(So, the longest day of them all can end, if we will have patience with it.)
One woman can hardly care, I think, to remember another one's eyes,
    And--the bats are beginning to flit.
    ...We hate one another?  It may be true.
    What else do you teach us to do?
    Yes, verily, to love you.

My lords--and gentlemen--are you sure that after we love quite all
There is in your noble selves to be loved, no time on our hands will remain?
Why, an hour a day were enough for this.  We may watch the wild leaves fall
    On the graves you forget...It is plain
    That you were not pleased when she said--Just so;
    Still, what do we want, after all, you know,
    But room for a rose to grow?

You leave us the baby to kiss, perhaps; the bird in the cage to sing;
The flower on the window, the fire on the hearth (and the fires in the heart) to tend.
When the wandering hand that would reach somewhere has become the Slave of the Ring,
    You give us--an image to mend;
    Then shut the door with a careless smile, the door--
    (There's dew or frost on the path before)
    We are safe inside.  What more?

If the baby should moan, or the bird sit hushed, or the flower fade out--what then?
Ah?  the old, old feud of mistress and maid would be left though the sun went out?
You can number the stars and call them by names, and, as men, you can wring from men
    The world--for they own it, no doubt.
    We, not being eagles are doves?  Why, yes,
    We must hide in the leaves, I guess,
    And coo down our loneliness.

God meant us for saints?  Yes--in Heaven.  Well, I, for one, am content
To trust him through darkenss and space to the end--if an end there shall be;
But, as to His meanings, I fancy I never knew quite what He meant.
    And--why, what were you saying to me
    Of the saints--or that saint?  It is late;
    The lilies look weird by the gate.
    ...Ah, sir, as to that--we will wait.

Her Word of Reproach

We must not quarrel, whatever we do;
For if I was (but I was not!) wrong,
Here are the tears for it, here are the tears:--
What else has a woman to offer you?
Love might not last for a thousand years,
You know, though the stars should rise so long.

Oh you, you talk in a man's great way!--
So, love would last though the stars should fall?
Why, yes.  If it last to the grave, indeed,
After the grave last on it may.
But--in the grave?  Will its dust take heed
Of anything sweet--or the sweetest of all?

Ah, death is nothing!  It may be so.
Yet, granting at least that death is death
(Pray, look at the rose, and hear the bird),
Whatever it is--we must die to know!
Sometimes we may long to say one word
Togather--and find we have  no breath.

Ah, me, how divine you are growing again!--
How coldly sure that the Heavens are sure,
Whither too lightly you always fly
To hide from the passion of human pain.
Come, grieve that the earth is not secure,
For this one night--and forget the sky!

Her Blindness in Grief

What if my soul is left to me!
Oh! sweeter than my soul was he.
Its breast broods on a coffin lid;
Its empty eyes stare at the dust.
Tears follow tears for treasure hid
Forevermore from moth and rust.

The sky a shadow is; how much
I long for something I can touch!
God is a silence: could I hear
Him whisper once, "Poor child," to me!
God is a dream, a hope, a fear,
A vision--that the seraphs see.

"Woman, why weepest thou?" One said,
To His own mother, from the dead.
If He should come to mock me now,
Here in my utter loneliness,
And say to me, "Why weepest thou?"
I wonder would I weep the less.

Or, could I, though these endless tears,
Look high into the lovely spheres
And see him there--my little child--
Nursed tenderly at Mary's breast,
Would not my sorrow be as wild?
Christ help me.  Who shall say the rest?

There is no comfort anywhere.
My baby's clothes, my baby's hair,
My baby's grave are all I know.
What would have hurt my baby?  Why,
Why did he come; why did he go?
And shall I have him by and by?

Poor grave of mine, so strange, so small,
You cover all, you cover all!
The flush of every flower, the dew,
The bird's old song, the heart's old trust,
The star's fair light, the darkness, too,
Are hidden in your heavy dust.

Oh! but to kiss his little feet,
And say to them, "So sweet, so sweet,"
I would give up whatever pain
(What else is there to give, I say?)
This wide world holds.  Again, again,
I yearn to follow him away.

My cry is but a human cry.
Who grieves for angels?  Do they die?
Oh! precious hands, as still as snows,
How your white fingers hold my heart!
Yet keep your buried buds of rose
Though earth and Heaven are far apart.

The grief is bitter.  Let me be.
He lies beneath that lonesome tree.
I've heard the fierce rain beating there.
Night covers it with cold moonshine.
Despair can only be despair.
God has his will.  I have not mine.

First Posted: 2/24/2002
Last modified: 08/23/08