Before the Feast of Shushan

Anne Spencer
Garden of Shushan!	
After Eden, all terrace, pool, and flower recollect thee:	
Ye weavers in saffron and haze and Tyrian purple,	
Tell yet what range in color wakes the eye;	
Sorcerer, release the dreams born here when	        
Drowsy, shifting palm-shade enspells the brain;	
And sound! ye with harp and flute ne'er essay	
Before these star-noted birds escaped from paradise awhile to	
Stir all dark, and dear, and passionate desire, till mine	
Arms go out to be mocked by the softly kissing body of the wind—	        
Slave, send Vashti to her King!	
 
The fiery wattles of the sun startle into flame	
The marbled towers of Shushan:	
So at each day's wane, two peers—the one in	
Heaven, the other on earth—welcome with their	        
Splendor the peerless beauty of the Queen.	
 
Cushioned at the Queen's feet and upon her knee	
Finding glory for mine head,—still, nearly shamed	
Am I, the King, to bend and kiss with sharp	
Breath the olive-pink of sandaled toes between;	        
Or lift me high to the magnet of a gaze, dusky,	
Like the pool when but the moon-ray strikes to its depth;	
Or closer press to crush a grape 'gainst lips redder	
Than the grape, a rose in the night of her hair;	
Then—Sharon's Rose in my arms.	        
 
And I am hard to force the petals wide;	
And you are fast to suffer and be sad.	
Is any prophet come to teach a new thing	
Now in a more apt time?	
Have him 'maze how you say love is sacrament;	        
How says Vashti, love is both bread and wine;	
How to the altar may not come to break and drink,	
Hulky flesh nor fleshly spirit!	
 
I, thy lord, like not manna for meat as a Judahn;	
I, thy master, drink, and red wine, plenty, and when	        
I thirst. Eat meat, and full, when I hunger.	
I, thy King, teach you and leave you, when I list.	
No woman in all Persia sets out strange action	
To confuse Persia's lord—	
Love is but desire and thy purpose fulfillment;	        
I, thy King, so say!

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Anne Spencer

by this poet

poem

Maker-of-Sevens in the scheme of things
From earth to star;
Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and
Over the border the bar.
Though rank and fierce the mariner
Sailing the seven seas,
He prays as he holds his glass to his eyes,
Coaxing the Pleiades.

I cannot love them; and I

poem
He trekked into a far country,
My friend and I.
Our deeper content was never spoken,
But each knew all the other said.
He told me how calm his soul was laid
By the lack of anvil and strife.
"The wooing kestrel," I said, "mutes his mating-note
To please the harmony of this sweet silence."
And when at the day's
poem
        A lover muses 

Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa,
I saw a daring bee, today, pause, and soar,
Into your flaming heart;
Then did I hear crisp crinkled laughter
As the furies after tore him apart?
A bird, next, small and humming,
Looked into your startled depths and fled...
Surely, some dread