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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343756" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Basket</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted,<br>in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into<br>the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air<br>is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">See how the roof glitters, like ice!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand<br>two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair.<br>She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill,<br>between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples his paper<br>as he leans forward to look. 'The Basket Filled with Moonlight',<br>what a title for a book!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The bellying clouds swing over the housetops.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He is beating<br>his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She sits<br>on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She cracks a nut.<br>And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The shells ricochet upon the roof,<br>and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'It is very queer,' thinks Peter, 'the basket was empty, I'm sure.<br>How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof glitters<br>like ice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Five o'clock. The geraniums are very gay in their crimson array.<br>The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs goes Peter<br>to pay his morning's work with a holiday.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can I come?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Peter jumps through the window.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Dear, are you alone?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This gold thread<br>is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have<br>seen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story going well?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The golden dome glittered in the orange of the setting sun. On the walls,<br>at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles,<br>and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and stitched with<br>so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds<br>new-opened on their stems.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread of such a red.<br>My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See my little<br>pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only that halo's wrong.<br>The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't know. My eyes<br>are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't do<br>any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit down<br>and amuse me while I rest.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climb<br>the opposite wall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting,<br>and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards her,<br>where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in a golden halo.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands.<br>His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, and the room<br>is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understands<br>the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colour<br>on another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurs<br>his name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Peter, I don't want it. I am tired.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full moon. I must be alone.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'How soon the moon is full again! Annette, let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love,<br>I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You write<br>`No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange, my Dear,<br>that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would marriage<br>strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied<br>the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the whole of me,<br>you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat.<br>Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you know it. I cannot<br>feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me if you do. It will<br>crush your heart and squeeze the love out.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He answered gruffly, 'I know what I'm about.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Only remember one thing from to-night. My work is taxing and I must<br>have sight! I MUST!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On the wall,<br>the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman<br>by a silver thread.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking, for there<br>are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises are cased<br>in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The basket<br>is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites and throws them away.<br>They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce<br>over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly sitting<br>on the window-sill, eating human eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof shines<br>like ice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How hot the sheets are! His skin is tormented with pricks,<br>and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights the sky with blood,<br>and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin, and he smells them<br>burning in, and branding his body with the name 'Annette'.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is it blood or fire?<br>Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches and pounds 'Annette!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets, gets to the edge,<br>bounces over and disappears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The bellying clouds are red as they swing over the housetops.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>V</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.<br>How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two black holes swallow<br>the brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets without sight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A man stands before the house. He sees the silver-blue moonlight,<br>and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium red.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Annette!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Amy+Lowell">Amy Lowell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343756" data-title="The Basket de Amy Lowell" data-description="I

The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted,
in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into
the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air
is silver and pearl, for the ni..."></div>
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