I must break you first for a while and you must break me.
We are too strong to love the surrendered city.
So we hate each other.)
That’s a pretty girl over there. Beautiful hair.
(She is the porcelain you play at being.)
Yes, isn’t she. Her name is Lucy Weatherby.
(I hate her hair. I hate her porcelain air.)
She can’t be from the county or I’d remember her.
(I know that kind of mouth. Your mouth is not that.
Your mouth is generous and bitter and sweet.
If I kissed your mouth, I would have to be yours forever.
Her mouth is pretty. You could kiss it awhile.)
No, they’re kin to the Shepleys. Lucy comes from Virginia.
(I know that kind of mouth. I know that hair.
I know the dolls you like to take in your hands,
The dolls that all men like to take in their hands,
I will not fight with a doll for you or any one.)
We’d better dance now.
(Lucy Weatherby.
When this dance is done, I will leave you and dance with her.
I know that shallow but sufficient mouth.)
As you please.
(Lucy Weatherby.
I will make an image of you, a doll in wax.
I will pierce the little wax palms with silver bodkins.
No, I will not.)
That’s good music. It beats in your head.
(It beats in the head, it beats in the head,
It ties the heart with a scarlet thread,
This is the last,
This is the last,
Hurry, hurry, this is the last.
We dance on a floor of polished sleet,
But the little cracks are beginning to meet,
Under the play of our dancing feet.
I do not care. I am Wingate still.
The corn unground by the watermill.
And I am yours while the fiddles spill,
But my will has a knife to cut your will,
My birds will never come to your hill.
You are my foe and my only friend,
You are the steel I cannot bend,
You are the water at the world’s end.
But Wingate Hall must tumble down,
Tumble down, tumble down,
A dream dissolving, a ruined thing,
Before we can melt from the shattered crown
Gold enough for a wedding-ring.
And Wingate Hall must lie in the dust,
And the wood rot and the iron rust
And the vines grow over the broken bust,
Before we meet without hate or pride,
Before we talk as lover and bride,
Before the daggers of our offence
Have the color of innocence,
And nothing is said and all is said,
And we go looking for secret bread,
And lie together in the same bed.)
Yes, it’s good music, hear it lift
(It is too mellow, it is too swift,
I am dancing alone in my naked shift,
I am dancing alone in the snowdrift.
You are my lover and you my life,
My peace and my unending strife
And the edge of the knife against my knife.
I will not make you a porcelain wife.
We are linked together for good and all,
For the still pool and the waterfall,
But you are married to Wingate Hall.
And Wingate Hall must tumble down,
Tumble down, tumble down,
Wingate Hall must tumble down,
An idol broken apart,
Before I sew on a wedding gown
And stitch my name in your heart.
And Wingate Hall must lie in the grass,
And the silk stain and the rabbits pass
And the sparrows wash in the gilded glass,
Before the fire of our anger smothers,
And our sorrows can laugh at their lucky brothers,
Before the knives of our enmity
Are buried under the same green tree
And nothing is vowed and all is vowed
And we have forgotten how to be proud,
And we sleep like cherubs in the same cloud.)
Lucy Weatherby, cuddled up in her bed,
Drifted along toward sleep with a smile on her mouth,
“I was pretty tonight,” she thought, “I was pretty tonight.
Blue’s my color—blue that matches my eyes.
I always ought to wear blue. I’m sorry for girls
Who can’t wear that sort of blue. Her name is Sally
But she’s too dark to wear the colors I can,
I’d like to give her my blue dress and see her wear it,
She’d look too gawky, poor thing. He danced with her
For a while at first but I hadn’t danced with him then,
He danced with me after that. He’s rather a dear.
I wonder how long he’ll be here. I think I like him.
I think I’m going to be pretty while I am here.
Lucy Weatherby—Lucy Shepley—Lucy Wingate—
Huger’s so jealous, nearly as jealous as Curly,
Poor Curly—I ought to answer his mother’s letter
But it’s so hard answering letters.” She cried a little,
Thinking of Curly. The tears were fluent and warm,
They did not sting in her eyes. They made her feel brave.
She could hardly remember Curly any more
But it was right to cry for him, now and then,
Slight tears at night and a long, warm, dreamless sleep
That left you looking pretty. She dried the tears
And thought to herself with a pleasant little awe,
“You really are mighty brave, dear. You really are.
Nobody would think your beau was killed at Manassas.”
—She could hardly remember Curly any more—
She tried to make Curly’s face come out of the darkness
But it was too hard—the other faces kept coming—
Huger Shepley and all the Virginia boys
And now this new boy’s face with the dark, keen eyes.
Boys who were privates, boys who were majors and captains,
Nice old Generals who patted your shoulder,
Darling convalescents who called you an angel—
A whole, great lucky-bag of nice, thrilling boys,
Fighting for you—and the South and the Cause, of course.
You were a flame for the Cause. You sang songs about it.
You sent white feathers to boys who didn’t enlist
And bunches of flowers to boys who were suitably wounded.
You wouldn’t dream of making peace with the North
While a single boy was left to fight for the Cause
And they called you the Dixie Angel. They fought for the Cause
But you couldn’t help feeling, too, that they fought for you,
And when they died for you—and the Cause and the flag—
Your heart was tender enough. You were willing to say
You had been engaged to them, even when you hadn’t
And answer their mothers’ letters in a sweet way,
Though answering letters was hard. She cuddled closer,
“Pillow, tell me I’m pretty, tell me I’m lovely,
Tell me I’m nicer than anybody you know,
Tell me that nice new boy is thinking about me,
Tell me that Sally girl
