Singing and shouting to port she races,

A flying harp, with her sheets and braces._

O Queen of Heaven, give me heed,

I am in very utmost need.

He loved me, he was all I had,

And when he came it made the sad

Thoughts disappear. This very day

Send his ship home to me I pray.

I'll be a priest, if you want it so,

I'll work till I have enough to go

And study Latin to say the prayers

On the rosary our old priest wears.

I wished to be a sailor too,

But I will give myself to you.

I'll never even spin my top,

But put it away in a box. I'll stop

Whistling the sailor-songs he taught.

I'll save my pennies till I have bought

A silver heart in the market square,

I've seen some beautiful, white ones there.

I'll give up all I want to do

And do whatever you tell me to.

Heavenly Lady, take away

All the games I like to play,

Take my life to fill the score,

Only bring him back once more!

_The poplars shiver and turn their leaves,

And the wind through the belfry moans and grieves.

The gray dust whirls in the market square,

And the silver hearts are covered with care

By thick tarpaulins. Once again

The bay is black under heavy rain._

The Queen of Heaven has shut her door.

A little boy weeps and prays no more.

After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok

But why did I kill him? Why? Why?

In the small, gilded room, near the stair?

My ears rack and throb with his cry,

And his eyes goggle under his hair,

As my fingers sink into the fair

White skin of his throat. It was I!

I killed him! My God! Don't you hear?

I shook him until his red tongue

Hung flapping out through the black, queer,

Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung

With my nails drawing blood, while I flung

The loose, heavy body in fear.

Fear lest he should still not be dead.

I was drunk with the lust of his life.

The blood-drops oozed slow from his head

And dabbled a chair. And our strife

Lasted one reeling second, his knife

Lay and winked in the lights overhead.

And the waltz from the ballroom I heard,

When I called him a low, sneaking cur.

And the wail of the violins stirred

My brute anger with visions of her.

As I throttled his windpipe, the purr

Of his breath with the waltz became blurred.

I have ridden ten miles through the dark,

With that music, an infernal din,

Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark!

One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in

To his flesh when the violins, thin

And straining with passion, grow stark.

One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound!

While she danced I was crushing his throat.

He had tasted the joy of her, wound

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