Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Waste Places

By James Stephens

AS a naked man I go

Through the desert sore afraid,

Holding up my head although

I’m as frightened as a maid.

The couching lion there I saw

From barren rocks lift up his eye;

He parts the cactus with his paw,

He stares at me as I go by.

He would follow on my trace

If he knew I was afraid,

If he knew my hardy face

Hides the terrors of a maid.

In the night he rises and

He stretches forth, he snuffs the air;

He roars and leaps along the sand,

He creeps and watches everywhere.

His burning eyes, his eyes of bale,

Through the darkness I can see;

He lashes fiercely with his tail,

He would love to spring at me.

I am the lion in his lair;

I am the fear that frightens me;

I am the desert of despair

And the nights of agony.

Night or day, whate’er befall,

I must walk that desert land,

Until I can dare to call

The lion out to lick my hand.

As a naked man I tread

The gloomy forests, ring on ring,

Where the sun that’s overhead

Cannot see what’s happening.

There I go: the deepest shade,

The deepest silence pressing me;

And my heart is more afraid

Than a maiden’s heart would be.

Every day I have to run

Underneath the demon tree,

Where the ancient wrong is done

While I shrink in agony.

There the demon held a maid

In his arms, and as she, daft,

Screamed again in fear, he laid

His lips upon her lips and laughed.

And she beckoned me to run,

And she called for help to me,

And the ancient wrong was done

Which is done eternally.

I am the maiden and the fear;

I am the sunless shade, the strife;

I the demon lips, the sneer

Showing under every life.

I must tread that gloomy way

Until I shall dare to run

And bear the demon with his prey

From the forest to the sun.