One Day We Played a Game
(Yolande: Her Poem)
One day we lay beneath an apple tree,
Tumultuous with fruit, live with the bee,
And there we played a gay, fantastic game
Of our own making, called Name me a Name.
The grave was liberal, letting us endow
Ourselves with names of lovers who by now
Are dust, but rarer dust for loving high
Than they shall be who let the red flame die. . . .
Crouched sphinx-wise in the grass, you hugged your knees,
And called me “Abelard;” I, “Heloise,”
Rejoined, and added thereto, “Melisande;”
Then “Pelleas,” I heard, and felt a hand
Slide into mine; joy would not let us speak
Awhile, but only sit there cheek to cheek,
Hand clasping hand. . . . till passion made us bold;
“Tristan,” you purred to me. . . . I laughed, “Isolde.”
“King Ninus, I,” I cried; snared in a kiss
You named yourself my dark Semiramis.
“Queen Guinevere,” I sang; you, “Lancelot.”
My heart grew big with pride to think you’d not
Cried “Arthur,” whom his lovely queen forgot
In loving him whose name you called me by. . . .
We two grew mad with loving then, and I
With whirlpool rapture strained you to my breast;
“First love! First love!” I urged, and “Adam!” blessed
My urgency. My lips grew soft with “Eve,”
And round with ardor purposing to leave
Upon your mouth a lasting seal of bliss. . . .
But midway of our kissing came a hiss
Above us in the apple tree; a sweet
Red apple rolled between us at our feet,
And looking up we saw with glide and dip,
Cold supple coils among the branches slip.
“Eve! Eve!” I cried, “Beware!” Too late. You bit
Half of the fruit away. . . . The rest of it
I took, assuring you with misty eyes,
“Fare each as each, we lose no Paradise.”
Tumultuous with fruit, live with the bee,
And there we played a gay, fantastic game
Of our own making, called Name me a Name.
The grave was liberal, letting us endow
Ourselves with names of lovers who by now
Are dust, but rarer dust for loving high
Than they shall be who let the red flame die. . . .
Crouched sphinx-wise in the grass, you hugged your knees,
And called me “Abelard;” I, “Heloise,”
Rejoined, and added thereto, “Melisande;”
Then “Pelleas,” I heard, and felt a hand
Slide into mine; joy would not let us speak
Awhile, but only sit there cheek to cheek,
Hand clasping hand. . . . till passion made us bold;
“Tristan,” you purred to me. . . . I laughed, “Isolde.”
“King Ninus, I,” I cried; snared in a kiss
You named yourself my dark Semiramis.
“Queen Guinevere,” I sang; you, “Lancelot.”
My heart grew big with pride to think you’d not
Cried “Arthur,” whom his lovely queen forgot
In loving him whose name you called me by. . . .
We two grew mad with loving then, and I
With whirlpool rapture strained you to my breast;
“First love! First love!” I urged, and “Adam!” blessed
My urgency. My lips grew soft with “Eve,”
And round with ardor purposing to leave
Upon your mouth a lasting seal of bliss. . . .
But midway of our kissing came a hiss
Above us in the apple tree; a sweet
Red apple rolled between us at our feet,
And looking up we saw with glide and dip,
Cold supple coils among the branches slip.
“Eve! Eve!” I cried, “Beware!” Too late. You bit
Half of the fruit away. . . . The rest of it
I took, assuring you with misty eyes,
“Fare each as each, we lose no Paradise.”