BOYHOOD
An anonymous poem
- ERE you
to ask what age of womanhood
- Brings most delight, producing most of good,
- I should, to quote a phrase much used in rhyme,
- "Turn back the leaflets in the Book of Time,"
- To find the page, whereon, in letters bright,
- Is written clear, my first ecstatic night.
-
- I was a boy attuned to passion's strain,
- I knew its music and I knew its pain,
- I longed for--something--but, I was a boy;
- I knew not how to change my pain to joy.
-
- But Heaven has given to earth, in its dire needs,
- No sweeter thing than widows, in their weeds,
- And in the household, where I ruled supreme,
- A widow lived, a sorrowing, throbbing dream.
- I was her comfort. Many times, at night,
- When I, awakened by some childish fright,
- Cried out to her, she took me to her side,
- And kissed me till my fears were pacified.
- She was my confidant. My childish fears,
- My hopes and dreams and all my boyish tears
- Found comfort sweet upon that loving breast
- Where all perplexities were set to rest.
-
- One night, worn out with tossing to and fro,
- In longings vain which boyhood's night must know,
- I dared to make pretence of sudden fright,
- That I might see that figure, clad in white,
- Come stealing to my side to whisper low:
- "What makes my precious darling tremble so?"
-
- All ye who cannot sympathize, stop here.
- I speak in tenderness and hold most dear
- The memory of that sweet transition hour,
- When Nature first revealed her wondrous power.
- My heart still throbs as I remember when
- I joined the ranks of sturdy little men.
-
- I know not now, what courage made me dare,
- But, pillowed close, upon her bosom fair,
- A truant hand went wandering far astray
- And found--that night hath greater charms than day.
- As mighty Mars, full statured, in an hour,
- From great Athena's helmet, in his power,
- Sprang forth full armoured, at the will of Jove,
- So I sprang forth, equipped and armed for love.
-
- With new-found strength, I ceased to be afraid
- And something wild within would not be stayed.
- Disarmed, perhaps, by hungry widowhood,
- She could not check me, even if she would
- And kisses wild were riotously pressed
- On starving lips too long left uncaressed,
- And roses red, upon the white flesh burned,
- The while she murmured: "Child! where have you learned?"
-
- I knew my madness, but my heart was fire
- And all was swept away in my desire.
- Her very gown of daintiest, filmiest lace,
- Seemed cumbersome to me and out of place;
- I reached and tore it, throat to hem, to find--
- How cruel Fate has been to those born blind.
- For even the moonbeams, stealing through the bars,
- Turned back to whisper to the twinkling stars,
- And tip-toed out again to realms of space,
- But left the memory of her blushing face.
- And when, at last, her beating heart stood still,
- As though no more subservient to her will,
- And when with fluttering breath, she closed her eyes,
- I seemed to lose her, in a mist of sighs.
- My senses swam as though a bursting star
- Had set on fire the cloudland realms afar,
- For one brief moment, I was lost in fear
- That all I held so passionately dear
- Might chide me as she never had before,
- And hold me in her clinging arms no more.
- I was a boy--unversed in Nature's needs,
- Unlearned of a widow's ways, without their weeds.
-
- She was not wanton. Nay! she was a woman,
- Whose wakened, passionate heart was truly human.
- And just when love was bursting into flower,
- The fates, relentless, sent her saddest hour,
- And, torn apart, from all she held most dear,
- Time's healing touch had dried the falling tear.
- She loved me. I could feel her bosom stir
- And strove to soothe my turbulent thoughts of her.
- But boon companions who have loved for long,
- Draw wavering lines betwixt the right and wrong.
- And who shall say that love, new-born like this,
- Must never know the madness of a kiss!
- And who shall say it was her duty clear
- To let me find a different atmosphere
- In which to learn the mysteries of the world,
- Where unclad sin, in wicked eddies whirled!
- I must not whisper, in a careless way,
- The thoughts that came to me at dawn of day.
- And yet--when asked what age of womanhood
- Brings most delight, producing most of good,
- I turn to widowhood with tender touch,
- And say: "Stop here, for widows know so much."
"Boyhood" is reprinted
from Poetica Erotica. Ed. T.R. Smith. New York: Crown
Publishers, 1921. |
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