The House Of Dust: Part 03: 02: The Screen Maiden

You read, what is it, then that you are reading?     What music moves so silently in your mind?     Your bright hand turns the page.     I watch you from my window, unsuspected:     You move in an alien land, a silent age . . .     . . . The poet, what was his name? Tokkei, Tokkei,     The poet walked alone in a cold late rain,     And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds;     For his lover was dead, he never would love again.     Rain in the dreams of the mind, rain forever,     Rain in the sky of the heart, rain in the willows,     But then he saw this face, this face like flame,     This quiet lady, this portrait by Hiroshigi;     And took it home with him; and with it came     What unexpected changes, subtle as weather!     The dark room, cold as rain,     Grew faintly fragrant, stirred with a stir of April,     Warmed its corners with light again,     And smoke of incense whirled about this portrait,     And the quiet lady there,     So young, so quietly smiling, with calm hands,     Seemed ready to loose her hair,     And smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word,     The word already clear,     Which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . .     He held his breath to hear,     And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine,     And held a candle, and searched her face     Through all the little shadows, to see what secret     Might give so warm a grace . . .     Was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little?     The eyes, half-turned aside?     The jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . .     The secret was denied,     He chose his favorite pen and drew these verses,     And slept; and as he slept     A dream came into his heart, his lover entered,     And chided him, and wept.     And in the morning, waking, he remembered,     And thought the dream was strange.     Why did his darkened lover rise from the garden?     He turned, and felt a change,     As if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . .     Yet there was only sunlight there.     Until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling,     And held his breath to stare,     And could have sworn her cheek had turned, a little . . .     Had slightly turned away . . .     Sunlight dozed on the floor . . . He sat and wondered,     Nor left his room that day.     And that day, and for many days thereafter,     He sat alone, and thought     No lady had ever lived so beautiful     As Hiroshigi wrought . . .     Or if she lived, no matter in what country,     By what far river or hill or lonely sea,     He would look in every face until he found her . . .     There was no other as fair as she.     And before her quiet face he burned soft incense,     And brought her every day     Boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry,     And somehow, she seemed to say,     That silent lady, young, and quietly smiling,     That she was happy there;     And sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble,     And desired to touch her hair,     To lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly     With delicate finger-tips     The ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish     Upon her lips . . .     Until he knew he loved this quiet lady;     And night by night a dread     Leered at his dreams, for he knew that Hiroshigi     Was many centuries dead,     And the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . .     Dead, and long turned to dust . . .     The thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler,     The peach leaves flew in a gust,     And he would surely have died; but there one day     A wise man, white with age,     Stared at the portrait, and said, This Hiroshigi     Knew more than archimage,     Cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit,     Till partly it entered there . . .     Sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . .     Do all I say with care,     And she you love may come to you when you call her . . .     So then this ghost, Tokkei,     Ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants,     And alone at the end of day     Entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait,     And saw the quiet eyes     Gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup,     And knelt, and did not rise,     And said, aloud, Lo-san, will you drink this wine?     Said it three times aloud.     And at the third the faint blue smoke of incense     Rose to the walls in a cloud,     And the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred;     And suddenly, with a sigh,     The quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait,     And stood, while worlds went by,     And lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup;     And the poet trembled, and said,     Lo-san, will you stay forever? Yes, I will stay.     But what when I am dead?     When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit,     And then we shall die no more.     Music came down upon them, and spring returning,     They remembered worlds before,     And years went over the earth, and over the sea,     And lovers were born and spoke and died,     But forever in sunlight went these two immortal,     Tokkei and the quiet bride . . .