Star over Bethlehem by Agatha Christie Page A

rebirth,
    Stirs me to a sudden cry!
    Then she passes—passes by,
    Leaving (so to me it seems)
    Only darkness filled with dreams …

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Undine
    U NDINE , straight and gold and white …
    Shimmering tresses, braided bright …
    Lips, not scarlet—Scarlet? No,
    Cool and pale as water’s flow.
    Cool and pale against my heart
    All thy body, and thou art
    Like a lily on the lake
    Where no man his thirst shall slake.
    And thy petals tightly curled
    Hold the jewel of the world,
    Looking in thy deep green eyes
    Far I see it where it lies
    Hidden by the water’s play,
    Grave sweet soul behind the gay.
    Now I know no jewel’s there
    So forever thou art fair …
    So forever,
    Loving never,
    Thou art fair, Undine,
    So fair …
    Unforgettably, so fair …

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Hawthorn Trees in Spring
A Lament of Women
    H OW heavy are the hawthorn trees,
    Weighed down with blossom,
    Laden with heavy perfume,
    Like the bodies and souls of women
    Heavy with fruit of men’s desire
    Or with their own desire in Spring.
    Up in the sky, divorced from earth,
    The aeroplanes pass
    Roaring along on their gallant adventures;
    They are the souls of men
    Set free from earth,
    Set free from the load of blossom
    And the cloying perfumes of Spring,
    They fly and are free.
    Yet at the last they must return,
    Fall back to earth,
    Gliding down presently and skimming the ground
    Or falling in vivid flame,
    Yet still returning to earth.
    And there shall Earth
    Gather them once again in her inmost womb
    And in due course
    The trees shall be laden again
    With leaves and blossom and fruit.
    How heavy are the hawthorn trees …
    How heavy … how achingly sweet.
    Shall there never be peace?
    And cold clear air?
    With never a scent or a breath
    Of the growing clustering flowering earth?
    How heavy are the hawthorn trees in Spring,
    How painfully, achingly sweet …

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The Lament of the Tortured Lover
    I HAVE said I adore you;
    I have said it—I have said it.
    Said it against your throat
    Where the pulses beat
    And under the curve of your breast …
    Outside the moon rides high in the sky,
    A lemon moon,
    A moon the colour of honey
    Made by the bees from lime trees.
    O pale lemon-coloured moon,
    You were worshipped five thousand years ago,
    The temples they built you are dust
    Or buried under the earth,
    But you are still the moon
    Riding high and proud in the sky …
    I am sick of words
    Of everlasting meaningless words.
    I love you—I love you—that parrot cry.
    Cannot flesh take flesh in silence?
    But no—you will not have it so.
    You were made for incense,
    For burning words,
    Words—words—words—going on through the night …
    While I worship the pulse in your throat
    And the curve of your breast …
    In twenty years your face will be haggard,
    Your eyes will be cold,
    Your sagging breasts will not stir my desire—
    But the moon will be still the moon …
    And I?
    What am I?
    I am a man who loves you
    Desperately, blindly.
    I am a man in the street
    Seeing the moon …
    I am an old man in a club
    Ringing the bell and saying “Old brandy.”
    I am curled up in my mother’s womb
    Knowing nothing of all this extraordinary business
    Called Life,
    Unhurt by the torture of beauty,
    Unconscious as yet that beauty is …
    I am all these things and always have been
    And ever shall be.
    O moon, ride high in the sky tonight,
    Ride high,
    Ride high …

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What Is Love?
    L OVE is a white flame—And a smouldering smoky fire
    It is a green tree—And a grey cathedral spire
    Love is an ecstasy—pure—It stirs in mud and slime
    It is youth and delight—It is cold and sublime
    There is none shall say
    What Love is—or is not,
    And which of us shall say:
    â€œDwell!” or “Depart!”
    Love will not stay
    And will not leave the heart
    At our desire or plea.
    But oh! for me
    This would I pray
    That Love might be a tree
    Rooted in