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| IN the dawn I gathered cedar-boughs | |
| For the plaiting of thy whip. | |
| They were wet with sweet drops; | |
| They still thought of the night. | |
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| All alone I shredded cedar-boughs, | 5 |
| Green boughs in the pale light, | |
| Where the morning meets the sea, | |
| And the great mountain stops. | |
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| Earth was very still. | |
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| I heard no sound but the whisper of my knife, | 10 |
| My black flint knife. | |
| It whispered among the white strands of the cedar, | |
| Whispered in parting the sweet cords for thy whip. | |
| O sweet-smelling juice of cedar— | |
| Life-ooze of love! | 15 |
| My knife drips: | |
| Its whisper is the only sound in all the world! | |
| |
| Finer than young sea-lions’ hairs | |
| Are my cedar-strands: | |
| They are fine as little roots deep down. | 20 |
| (O little roots of cedar | |
| Far, far under the bosom of Tsa-Kumts!— | |
| They have plaited her through with love.) | |
| Now, into my love-gift | |
| Closely, strongly, I will weave them— | 25 |
| Little strands of pain! | |
| Since I saw thee | |
| Standing with thy torch in my doorway, | |
| Their little roots are deep in me. | |
| |
| In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughs: | 30 |
| Sweet, sweet was their odor, | |
| They were wet with tears— | |
| The sweetness will not leave my hands, | |
| No, not in salt sea-washings: | |
| Tears will not wash away sweetness. | 35 |
| I shall have sweet hands for thy service. | |
| |
| (Ah—sometimes—thou wilt be gentle? | |
| Little roots of pain are deep, deep in me | |
| Since I saw thee standing in my doorway.) | |
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| I have quenched thy torch— | 40 |
| I have plaited thy whip. | |
| I am thy Woman! | |
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