| Upon reaching my friend -- and let me explain |
| That these scenes in the scene all take place in my brain -- |
| I began with a few neatly turned words on love |
| As the poets' own bourne, and declared that no glove |
| 5 Ever fitted a hand with less wrinkling and snugger |
| Than this theme this poet. Here I noticed her shrug her |
| Shoulders a little, which was rather upsetting. |
| However, it may have been only coquetting. |
| Still I thought it was wise to get on with my tale: |
| 10 "Our love-poet, par excellence, Sara
Teasdale," |
| I said with a flourish. Now that was a whale |
| Of a compliment, such things deserve an entail, |
| 'Twas so brilliantly super even if it were true, |
| And I knew very well 'twas but one of a cue. |
| 15 "This poet," I went on, "is a great
niece of Sappho, |
| I know not how many 'greats' laid in a row |
| There should be, but her pedigree's perfectly clear; |
| You can read it in Magazine Verse for the year, |
| She is also a cousin, a few times removed, |
| 20 Of dear Mrs. Browning, that last can be proved. |
| The elder poet hid in a shrouding mantilla |
| Which she called Portuguese. Was ever trick sillier? |
| Our Sara is bolder, and feels quite at ease |
| As herself; in her mind there is nothing to tease. |
| 25 Dale and valley, the country is hers she traverses, |
| She has mapped it all out in a bushel of verses. |
| Sara Teasdale she is -- was -- for our minnesinger, |
| Behind her front door, is now Mrs. Filsinger. |
| A hard question this, for a hand-maid of Muses, |
[68]
|
| 30 When she's once made a name in cold print which she
loses |
| On taking a husband, the law's masculinity |
| Would seem to demand a perpetual virginity |
| For all married poets of the downtrodden sex. |
| To forfeit the sale of a new volume checks |
| 35 Even marital ardor, to say nothing of checks. |
| It's just this sort of thing which so frequently
wrecks |
| Himself on his wife when the lady's composing |
| Under whatever name, the world grows awarer |
| Every year of the prize we have got here in Sara. |
| 40 She has no colors, no trumpets, no platforms, no skepticisms, |
| She has no taste for experiments, and joins in no schisms: |
| She just sings like a bird, and I think you'll agree |
| This is clearly the place for the china-berry tree -- |
| With a difference, the bird in that pleasant, arboreal |
| 45 Importation had three tones, while her reportorial |
| Range is compassed in one, the reflex amatorial. |
| She loves in a charming, perpetual way, |
| As though it just came when she was distrait, |
| Or quite occupied in affairs of the day. |
[69]
|
| 50 Or else, and I think the remark's more acute |
| She lives as the flower above a deep root. |
| Like a dedicate nun, she tells bead after bead |
| At Matins, Tierce, Vespers. You'd think she'd
be treed |
| Just once a while to find something to say. |
| 55 Not at all, she's a vast catalogue
raisonnée
|
| Of the subject. No one's so completely au
fait. |
| Her poetry succeeds, in spite of fragility, |
| Because of her very remarkable agility. |
| There is no single stunt in the style amatory |
| 60 Which is not included in her category, |
| We may as well take that at once a priori. |
| So easy to her seems the work of creation |
| She might be just jotting down lines from dictation. |
| There is nothing green here, each poem's of the
ripest. |
| 65 The income tax lists her as Cupid's own typist. |
| Of course, it is true that she's not intellectual, |
| But those poets who are, are so apt to subject you all |
| To theories and treatises, the whole galvanometry |
| Of the bardling who thinks verse a sort of geometry. |
| 70 Now Sara's as easy to read as a slip |
| On a piece of banana, and there's no need to skip, |
| For each poem's so peculiarly like every other |
| You may as well say where you are and not bother. |
| She's that very rare compost, the dainty erotic; |
| 75 Such a mixture can't fail to produce a hypnotic |
| Effect on the reader, whose keenest sensation |
| Will consist in a perfect identification |
| Of himself with the poet, and her sorrows and joys |
| Become his, while he swings to the delicate poise |
[70]
|
| 80 Of a primitive passion so nicely refined |
| It could not bring a blush to the most squeamish mind. |
| Though the poems, I may add, are all interlined |
| For the ready perusal of those not too blind. |
| For Sara, if singer, is also a woman, |
| 85 I know of no creature more thoroughly human. |
| If woman, she's also a lady who realizes |
| That a hidden surprise is the best of surprises. |
| She seems a white statue awaiting unveiling, |
| But raised on a platform behind a stout railing |
| 90 Whence she lures and retires, provoking a nearer |
| Contact which is promised to be even dearer |
| If we find we have courage enough not to fear her." |
| I looked at my subject of find she'd departed, |
| It's a habit of hers when a party's once
started |
| 95 To vanish unnoticed. My poetess had flown. |
