In The Public Library

Standing on tiptoe, head back, eyes and arm Upraised, Kate groped to reach the higher shelf. Her sleeve slid up like darkness in alarm At gleam of dawn. Impatient with herself For lack of inches, careless of her charm, She strained to grasp a volume; then she turned Back to her chair, an unforgetful Eve Still snatching at the fruit for which she yearned In Eden. She read idly to relieve The forehead where her daylong studies burned, Tales of an uncrowned queen who fed her child On poisons, till death lurked, in act to spring, Between the girl's breasts; who with soft mouth smiled With soft eyes tempted the usurping King Then dealt him death in kisses. Kate had piled Her books three deep before her and across This barricade she watched an old man nod Over a dirty paper, until loss Of life seemed better than possession. Shod With kisses death might skid like thistle floss Down windy slides, might prove at heart as gay As Cinderella in glass slippers. Life goes awkwardly so sandalled. Had decay Been the girl's gift in that Miltonic strife She would have rivalled God, Kate thought. A ray Of sunshine carrying gilded flecks of dust And minutes bright with fancies, touched her hair To powder it with gold and silver, just As if being now admitted she should wear The scholar's wig, colleague of those whose lust For beauty hidden in an outworn tongue Had made it possible for her to read Tales that were fathered in Arabia, sung By trouvères and forgotten with their creed Of love and magic. Beams that strayed among Kate's fingers lit a rosy lantern there To glow in twilight. Suddenly afraid She seemed to see her beauty in a flare Of light from hell. A throng of devils swayed Before her, devils that had learned to wear The shape of scholar, poet, libertine. They smiled, frowned, beckoned, swearing to estrange Kate from reflection that her soul had been Slain by her woman's body or would change From contact with it to a thing unclean. Woman was made to worship man, they preached, Not God, to serve earth's purpose, not to roam The heavens of thought . . . A factory whistle screeched, Someone turned up the lights. On her way home Kate wondered in what mode were angels breeched.