(_closes her eyes_)
Stop doing that!--words going into patterns;
They do it sometimes when I let come what's there.
Thoughts take pattern--then the pattern is the thing.
But let me tell you how it is with me. (_it flows again_)
All that I do or say--it is to what it comes from,
A drop lifted from the sea.
I want to lie upon the earth and know.
But--scratch a little dirt and make a flower;
Scratch a bit of brain--something like a poem. (_covering her face_)
Stop _doing_ that. Help me stop doing that!
TOM: (_and from the place where she had carried him_)
Don't talk at all. Lie still and know--
And know that I am knowing.
CLAIRE:
Yes; but we are so weak we have to talk;
To talk--to touch.
Why can't I rest in knowing I would give my life to reach you?
That has--all there is.
But I must--put my timid hands upon you,
Do something about infinity.
Oh, let what will flow into us,
And fill us full--and leave us still.
Wring me dry,
And let me fill again with life more pure.
To know--to feel,
And do nothing with what I feel and know--
That's being good. That's nearer God.
(_drenched in the feeling that has flowed through her--but
surprised--helpless_) Why, I said your thing, didn't I? Opened my life
to bring you to me, and what came--is what sends you away.
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