PATTERNSI walk down the garden paths,And all the daffodilsAre blowing, and the bright blue squills.I walk down the patterned garden pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,I too am a rarePattern. As I wander downThe garden paths.My dress is richly figured,And the trainMakes a pink and silver stainOn the gravel, and the thriftOf the borders.Just a plate of current fashion,Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.Not a softness anywhere about me,Only a whale-bone and brocade.And I sink on a seat in the shadeOf a lime tree. For my passionWars against the stiff brocade.The daffodils and squillsFlutter in the breezeAs they please.And I weep;For the lime tree is in blossomAnd one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.And the splashing of waterdropsIn the marble fountainComes down the garden paths.The dripping never stops.Underneath my stiffened gownIs the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,A basin in the midst of hedges grownSo thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,But she guesses he is near,And the sliding of the waterSeems the stroking of a dearHand upon her.What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.All the pink and silver crumpled up upon the ground.I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,And he would stumble after,Bewildered by my laughter.I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes.I would chooseTo lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,Till he caught me in the shade,And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,Aching, melting, unafraid.With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,And the plopping of the waterdrops,All about us in the open afternoon—I am very like to swoonWith the weight of this brocade,For the sun sifts through the shade.Underneath the fallen blossomIn my bosom,Is a letter I have hid.It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord HartwellDied in action Thursday sen’night.”As I read it in the white morning sunlight.The letters squirmed like snakes.“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.“No,” I told him.“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.No, no answer.”And I walked into the garden,Up and down the patterned paths,In my stiff, correct brocade.The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,Each one.I stood upright too,Held rigid to the patternBy the stiffness of my gown.Up and down I walked,Up and down.In a month he would have been my husband,In a month, here, underneath this lime,We would have broke the pattern;He for me, and I for him,He as Colonel, I as lady,On this shady seat.He had a whimThat sunlight carried blessing.And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”Now he is dead.In Summer and in Winter I shall walkUp and downThe patterned garden pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.The squills and the daffodilsWill give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.I shall goUp and down,In my gown.Gorgeously arrayed,Boned and stayed.And the softness of my body will be guarded from embraceBy each button, hook and lace.For the man who should loose me is dead,Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,In a pattern called a war.Christ! What are patterns for?AMY LOWELL
I walk down the garden paths,And all the daffodilsAre blowing, and the bright blue squills.I walk down the patterned garden pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,I too am a rarePattern. As I wander downThe garden paths.My dress is richly figured,And the trainMakes a pink and silver stainOn the gravel, and the thriftOf the borders.Just a plate of current fashion,Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.Not a softness anywhere about me,Only a whale-bone and brocade.And I sink on a seat in the shadeOf a lime tree. For my passionWars against the stiff brocade.The daffodils and squillsFlutter in the breezeAs they please.And I weep;For the lime tree is in blossomAnd one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.And the splashing of waterdropsIn the marble fountainComes down the garden paths.The dripping never stops.Underneath my stiffened gownIs the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,A basin in the midst of hedges grownSo thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,But she guesses he is near,And the sliding of the waterSeems the stroking of a dearHand upon her.What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.All the pink and silver crumpled up upon the ground.I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,And he would stumble after,Bewildered by my laughter.I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes.I would chooseTo lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,Till he caught me in the shade,And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,Aching, melting, unafraid.With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,And the plopping of the waterdrops,All about us in the open afternoon—I am very like to swoonWith the weight of this brocade,For the sun sifts through the shade.Underneath the fallen blossomIn my bosom,Is a letter I have hid.It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord HartwellDied in action Thursday sen’night.”As I read it in the white morning sunlight.The letters squirmed like snakes.“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.“No,” I told him.“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.No, no answer.”And I walked into the garden,Up and down the patterned paths,In my stiff, correct brocade.The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,Each one.I stood upright too,Held rigid to the patternBy the stiffness of my gown.Up and down I walked,Up and down.In a month he would have been my husband,In a month, here, underneath this lime,We would have broke the pattern;He for me, and I for him,He as Colonel, I as lady,On this shady seat.He had a whimThat sunlight carried blessing.And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”Now he is dead.In Summer and in Winter I shall walkUp and downThe patterned garden pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.The squills and the daffodilsWill give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.I shall goUp and down,In my gown.Gorgeously arrayed,Boned and stayed.And the softness of my body will be guarded from embraceBy each button, hook and lace.For the man who should loose me is dead,Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,In a pattern called a war.Christ! What are patterns for?
AMY LOWELL