Oranges

ORANGES

ASMALLNew England village in the hills: ...The date?Oh, many, many years ago ... the season very late ...November!The conquering colours that a year must always holdHave vanished.Pale Northern Spring in tints of lilac, softest green and rose;The short hot Summer’s purple and dark green and yellow gold;The tawny richness of the harvest’s close ...All past and vanquished in this sullen cold,By sombre grays and browns, dead white and black.The tall-spired meeting-house, the school,The stiff white houses built by rigid rule,Even the village store,With hospitable, easily-opened door;And their human owners reared in godly fear,Austere, repressed,Severe ...How it all lies, before our modern eyes,So grim.Dressed in that rigid livery of nature’s gloom that suits it best.Hear their stern hymn ...Dignified, slow,Sung in proud, solemn majesty of menace and woe.“Our days as grass ... all earth is but a tomb” ...What unfathomed gloom ...Smouldering!(2)Keen bitter winds have stripped the great elm trees,And swept the one long streetRuthlessly neat;Quite bare of all the withered, dead, brown leaves,Except for small dry heaps that meet,Trembling and mournfully rustling,CaughtIn the corners of the neat, white, picket fences;Or driftingBehind the pillars in the porch of the white meeting-house,Unused through the long weekExcept for Death.How the winds shriek about the meeting-house!(But wait before you shudder and turn away!)With the keen, icy breath of the New England hillsSharp in your nostrils,Step over the threshold of the village store,With its easily-opened door.Breathe this different air,Heavy with curiously mingled odoursAs if another wind had blown in thereHeaps of rareDrifted salvage ...Some wild, rich wind from wild rich worlds beyond,That folk cannot entirely withhold,Even from a Puritan village long ago.Beware ... ye righteous folk of old ...Beware!(3)Here are great foreign boxes, wisely and deftly made,That hold teas from the Orient, compactly laid;And coffee beans.Here spices, pungent and hot;Tall, blue-wrapped cones of sugar; fine and coarse salt;And finest quality of figured delaine;Dark, serviceable calico dotted and plain;Sheer delicate muslin, white as milk,And thick black silk;And broadcloth heavy and black;And much, much more ...Of quantity and quality no lack—For this is the “general store,” of a prosperous manOld and wealthy and wise,In the village eyes.Oh, Puritan New England would be clothed fittingly;And Puritan palates know,Both high and lowThe wholesome savour of good foodWhen in the mood;As well as very fineFlavours in sermons by some “great divine;”Or savour of ethics proved and tried,And flavours in doctrines never very wide ...But high and pure ...(That you’ll acknowledge!)God ... but they were sure ...Those grim fine people of ours! ... another hymn ...“Only such things as are godly and pure,Saved from consuming wrath they shall endure.”...Is that the echo of the bellFrom the tall-spired white meeting-house?Its bell is silent through the week, except for Death ...Hear the wind shriek about the meeting-house!But this small bellFastened above the doorOf the old village store,Tinkles continually, where through the week,They barter and buy and sell.(4)(In this short passing hour we shall see more ...)He is a man of vision and breadth of mind ...This storekeeper.Back in the dusky depths of the old storeAre rows of books in sober black and brown;Books for his townThat are not all volumes of sermons or hymns,Or a “Garland of Sacred Poetry from Friend to Friend.”(Does not some stern voice ask “Where will this end?”)For here are books of perilous voyages, tales of human ways,And human lives, and of the great, historic, coloured daysOf far-off empires ... Ah ... here are William Shakespeare’s mighty plays!(But we must not stop to read more titles now ... the hour is almost past)Daylight is fading fast ...And heaped on the dark, well-rubbed old counter lies his lastAnd latest venture on seas of commerce ...Oranges!(5)Oranges ... oranges ...Great balls of golden wonder ... round, perishable globes ...Here a ripe pyramid most carefully laidBeside sad-toned materials for matrons’ robes,And piles of iron-gray wool for their men’s winter stockings ...Plain comfortable sight ... proof against sharp frost biteOf the Northern Winters.See how the oranges have caught up all the light!What joyous tones they holdOf vivid, bold,Hot colour!They glow like balls moulded of molten gold.Above them from the rafters hang thin strings and strings,Innumerable stringsOf dull, dried apples!Nothing is here akin to the oranges at all ...Nothing in allThis colourless, inanimate hoard ... nothing’s akinExcept that vague, enduring richness, so alluring,That we smell,When the small bell,Over the door tinkles ... and we come in ...Out of the keen, pure coldness of the wind.(6)So ... the scene is set ... for good and ill.Over the highest hillNew winds blow wild and shrill:For “the old order changeth” still.Who now is sure what shall endure?The street is empty ... in the dusky store,Holding the eye with a voluptuous lure,The oranges burn through the smouldering gloom.

ASMALLNew England village in the hills: ...

The date?

Oh, many, many years ago ... the season very late ...

November!

The conquering colours that a year must always hold

Have vanished.

Pale Northern Spring in tints of lilac, softest green and rose;

The short hot Summer’s purple and dark green and yellow gold;

The tawny richness of the harvest’s close ...

All past and vanquished in this sullen cold,

By sombre grays and browns, dead white and black.

The tall-spired meeting-house, the school,

The stiff white houses built by rigid rule,

Even the village store,

With hospitable, easily-opened door;

And their human owners reared in godly fear,

Austere, repressed,

Severe ...

How it all lies, before our modern eyes,

So grim.

Dressed in that rigid livery of nature’s gloom that suits it best.

Hear their stern hymn ...

Dignified, slow,

Sung in proud, solemn majesty of menace and woe.

“Our days as grass ... all earth is but a tomb” ...

What unfathomed gloom ...

Smouldering!

(2)

Keen bitter winds have stripped the great elm trees,And swept the one long streetRuthlessly neat;Quite bare of all the withered, dead, brown leaves,Except for small dry heaps that meet,Trembling and mournfully rustling,CaughtIn the corners of the neat, white, picket fences;Or driftingBehind the pillars in the porch of the white meeting-house,Unused through the long weekExcept for Death.How the winds shriek about the meeting-house!(But wait before you shudder and turn away!)With the keen, icy breath of the New England hillsSharp in your nostrils,Step over the threshold of the village store,With its easily-opened door.Breathe this different air,Heavy with curiously mingled odoursAs if another wind had blown in thereHeaps of rareDrifted salvage ...Some wild, rich wind from wild rich worlds beyond,That folk cannot entirely withhold,Even from a Puritan village long ago.Beware ... ye righteous folk of old ...Beware!

Keen bitter winds have stripped the great elm trees,

And swept the one long street

Ruthlessly neat;

Quite bare of all the withered, dead, brown leaves,

Except for small dry heaps that meet,

Trembling and mournfully rustling,

Caught

In the corners of the neat, white, picket fences;

Or drifting

Behind the pillars in the porch of the white meeting-house,

Unused through the long week

Except for Death.

How the winds shriek about the meeting-house!

(But wait before you shudder and turn away!)

With the keen, icy breath of the New England hills

Sharp in your nostrils,

Step over the threshold of the village store,

With its easily-opened door.

Breathe this different air,

Heavy with curiously mingled odours

As if another wind had blown in there

Heaps of rare

Drifted salvage ...

Some wild, rich wind from wild rich worlds beyond,

That folk cannot entirely withhold,

Even from a Puritan village long ago.

Beware ... ye righteous folk of old ...

Beware!

(3)

Here are great foreign boxes, wisely and deftly made,That hold teas from the Orient, compactly laid;And coffee beans.Here spices, pungent and hot;Tall, blue-wrapped cones of sugar; fine and coarse salt;And finest quality of figured delaine;Dark, serviceable calico dotted and plain;Sheer delicate muslin, white as milk,And thick black silk;And broadcloth heavy and black;And much, much more ...Of quantity and quality no lack—For this is the “general store,” of a prosperous manOld and wealthy and wise,In the village eyes.Oh, Puritan New England would be clothed fittingly;And Puritan palates know,Both high and lowThe wholesome savour of good foodWhen in the mood;As well as very fineFlavours in sermons by some “great divine;”Or savour of ethics proved and tried,And flavours in doctrines never very wide ...But high and pure ...(That you’ll acknowledge!)God ... but they were sure ...Those grim fine people of ours! ... another hymn ...“Only such things as are godly and pure,Saved from consuming wrath they shall endure.”...Is that the echo of the bellFrom the tall-spired white meeting-house?Its bell is silent through the week, except for Death ...Hear the wind shriek about the meeting-house!But this small bellFastened above the doorOf the old village store,Tinkles continually, where through the week,They barter and buy and sell.

Here are great foreign boxes, wisely and deftly made,

That hold teas from the Orient, compactly laid;

And coffee beans.

Here spices, pungent and hot;

Tall, blue-wrapped cones of sugar; fine and coarse salt;

And finest quality of figured delaine;

Dark, serviceable calico dotted and plain;

Sheer delicate muslin, white as milk,

And thick black silk;

And broadcloth heavy and black;

And much, much more ...

Of quantity and quality no lack—

For this is the “general store,” of a prosperous man

Old and wealthy and wise,

In the village eyes.

Oh, Puritan New England would be clothed fittingly;

And Puritan palates know,

Both high and low

The wholesome savour of good food

When in the mood;

As well as very fine

Flavours in sermons by some “great divine;”

Or savour of ethics proved and tried,

And flavours in doctrines never very wide ...

But high and pure ...

(That you’ll acknowledge!)

God ... but they were sure ...

Those grim fine people of ours! ... another hymn ...

“Only such things as are godly and pure,

Saved from consuming wrath they shall endure.”...

Is that the echo of the bell

From the tall-spired white meeting-house?

Its bell is silent through the week, except for Death ...

Hear the wind shriek about the meeting-house!

But this small bell

Fastened above the door

Of the old village store,

Tinkles continually, where through the week,

They barter and buy and sell.

(4)

(In this short passing hour we shall see more ...)He is a man of vision and breadth of mind ...This storekeeper.Back in the dusky depths of the old storeAre rows of books in sober black and brown;Books for his townThat are not all volumes of sermons or hymns,Or a “Garland of Sacred Poetry from Friend to Friend.”(Does not some stern voice ask “Where will this end?”)For here are books of perilous voyages, tales of human ways,And human lives, and of the great, historic, coloured daysOf far-off empires ... Ah ... here are William Shakespeare’s mighty plays!(But we must not stop to read more titles now ... the hour is almost past)Daylight is fading fast ...And heaped on the dark, well-rubbed old counter lies his lastAnd latest venture on seas of commerce ...Oranges!

(In this short passing hour we shall see more ...)

He is a man of vision and breadth of mind ...

This storekeeper.

Back in the dusky depths of the old store

Are rows of books in sober black and brown;

Books for his town

That are not all volumes of sermons or hymns,

Or a “Garland of Sacred Poetry from Friend to Friend.”

(Does not some stern voice ask “Where will this end?”)

For here are books of perilous voyages, tales of human ways,

And human lives, and of the great, historic, coloured days

Of far-off empires ... Ah ... here are William Shakespeare’s mighty plays!

(But we must not stop to read more titles now ... the hour is almost past)

Daylight is fading fast ...

And heaped on the dark, well-rubbed old counter lies his last

And latest venture on seas of commerce ...

Oranges!

(5)

Oranges ... oranges ...Great balls of golden wonder ... round, perishable globes ...Here a ripe pyramid most carefully laidBeside sad-toned materials for matrons’ robes,And piles of iron-gray wool for their men’s winter stockings ...Plain comfortable sight ... proof against sharp frost biteOf the Northern Winters.See how the oranges have caught up all the light!What joyous tones they holdOf vivid, bold,Hot colour!They glow like balls moulded of molten gold.Above them from the rafters hang thin strings and strings,Innumerable stringsOf dull, dried apples!Nothing is here akin to the oranges at all ...Nothing in allThis colourless, inanimate hoard ... nothing’s akinExcept that vague, enduring richness, so alluring,That we smell,When the small bell,Over the door tinkles ... and we come in ...Out of the keen, pure coldness of the wind.

Oranges ... oranges ...

Great balls of golden wonder ... round, perishable globes ...

Here a ripe pyramid most carefully laid

Beside sad-toned materials for matrons’ robes,

And piles of iron-gray wool for their men’s winter stockings ...

Plain comfortable sight ... proof against sharp frost bite

Of the Northern Winters.

See how the oranges have caught up all the light!

What joyous tones they hold

Of vivid, bold,

Hot colour!

They glow like balls moulded of molten gold.

Above them from the rafters hang thin strings and strings,

Innumerable strings

Of dull, dried apples!

Nothing is here akin to the oranges at all ...

Nothing in all

This colourless, inanimate hoard ... nothing’s akin

Except that vague, enduring richness, so alluring,

That we smell,

When the small bell,

Over the door tinkles ... and we come in ...

Out of the keen, pure coldness of the wind.

(6)

So ... the scene is set ... for good and ill.Over the highest hillNew winds blow wild and shrill:For “the old order changeth” still.Who now is sure what shall endure?The street is empty ... in the dusky store,Holding the eye with a voluptuous lure,The oranges burn through the smouldering gloom.

So ... the scene is set ... for good and ill.

Over the highest hill

New winds blow wild and shrill:

For “the old order changeth” still.

Who now is sure what shall endure?

The street is empty ... in the dusky store,

Holding the eye with a voluptuous lure,

The oranges burn through the smouldering gloom.

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