Abrigada
Abrigada
I had been toldA foolish tale:Of stone, dank, cold.But you,Erect to winter storm,To clutch of frosty-fingered gale,Are warm.I thought that stone was silent too,Unmoved by beauty,Unaware of season or of mirth,(Stern sister of quiet earth),But I hear laughter, singing, as I layMy face against your graySurely I hear a rhythm of near wavesAnd sense the leaping spray,Mixed with wild-rose and honeysuckle,Budding sassafras,And the cool breath of pungent leafy bay?I knew that walls were shelteringAnd strong,But you have sheltered love so longThat love is partOf your straight towering,Lifting you straighter still,As heart lifts heart—Hush—How the Whip-poor-willWails from his bush,The thrushIs garrulous with delight,There is a rapture in that liquid monotone:“Bob-White! Bob-White!”(Dear living stone!)* * *In the great room below,Where arches hold the listening spaces,Flames crackle, toss and gleamIn the red fire-places;Memories dream—Of other memories, perhaps,Of other lives;Of birthsAnd of re-births that men deem death;Of voices, foot-steps tapping the stone floor,And faces—faces—Beyond, the open door,The meadow drowsy with the moon,The mild outline of dune,The lake, the silver magic in the trees:Walls, you are one with these.* * *Up on the loggia-roof,Under stars pale as they,Two silent ones have crept away,Seeking the deeper silence lovers know;Into the drifting shadows of the night,Into the aching beauty of the nightThey dare to go.The moonIs a vast cocoon,Spinning her wild white threadAcross the sky;A thousand crickets croonTheir sharp-edged lullaby;I hear a murmuring of lips on lips:“All that I am, beloved—All—”(Lovers’ eternal cry!)Hold them still closer, wall!* * *You stand serene.The salt winds linger, leanUpon your breast;The mistLifts up a gray face to be kissed;The east and westHang you with banners,Flaunt their brief victories of dusk and dawn;Seasons salute you as they pass,Call to you and are gone.Amid your meadow-grass,Lush, green,You stand serene.* * *Houses are like the hearts of men,I think;They must have life within,(This is their meat and drink),They must have fires and friends and kin,Love for the day and night,Children in strong young laps:Then they live—then!Houses and hearts of men,Joyful and woeful,Haunted perhaps;Loving, forgetting,Loved and forgot,Fading at last, to die,Crumble and rot:But they who know you, Abrigada,They and IForget you not.* * *Nor they who standOn Abrigada’s roof,(Red-tiled, aloof),Who climb as I climb now,Withdrawn from reach of hand,From call of crowd,Looking down on distance, dune and bough,And looking up on distance, cloud and cloud.Only not looking back!For it is well finally to forgetThe thirst, the much-lipped cup,The plethora, the piteous lack,The broken things, the stains, the scars—Well to look up and up:To dream undaunted dreams aloudAnd stumble toward the stars!* * *This be in praiseOf Abrigada,In all the waysThat come to meThrough the mild midsummer days.In speech;In rhyme and rhythm of written word—Name it a poem, maybe!In song:Tuck the brown shining wood under my chin—My bird,My heart,My violin!In dream;In prayer;In silence, best of all,Leaning thereOn the beloved wall.In silence like a cry,Ardent and high;A note of Abrigada’s silenceSung to a quiet sky.
I had been toldA foolish tale:Of stone, dank, cold.But you,Erect to winter storm,To clutch of frosty-fingered gale,Are warm.I thought that stone was silent too,Unmoved by beauty,Unaware of season or of mirth,(Stern sister of quiet earth),But I hear laughter, singing, as I layMy face against your graySurely I hear a rhythm of near wavesAnd sense the leaping spray,Mixed with wild-rose and honeysuckle,Budding sassafras,And the cool breath of pungent leafy bay?I knew that walls were shelteringAnd strong,But you have sheltered love so longThat love is partOf your straight towering,Lifting you straighter still,As heart lifts heart—Hush—How the Whip-poor-willWails from his bush,The thrushIs garrulous with delight,There is a rapture in that liquid monotone:“Bob-White! Bob-White!”(Dear living stone!)* * *In the great room below,Where arches hold the listening spaces,Flames crackle, toss and gleamIn the red fire-places;Memories dream—Of other memories, perhaps,Of other lives;Of birthsAnd of re-births that men deem death;Of voices, foot-steps tapping the stone floor,And faces—faces—Beyond, the open door,The meadow drowsy with the moon,The mild outline of dune,The lake, the silver magic in the trees:Walls, you are one with these.* * *Up on the loggia-roof,Under stars pale as they,Two silent ones have crept away,Seeking the deeper silence lovers know;Into the drifting shadows of the night,Into the aching beauty of the nightThey dare to go.The moonIs a vast cocoon,Spinning her wild white threadAcross the sky;A thousand crickets croonTheir sharp-edged lullaby;I hear a murmuring of lips on lips:“All that I am, beloved—All—”(Lovers’ eternal cry!)Hold them still closer, wall!* * *You stand serene.The salt winds linger, leanUpon your breast;The mistLifts up a gray face to be kissed;The east and westHang you with banners,Flaunt their brief victories of dusk and dawn;Seasons salute you as they pass,Call to you and are gone.Amid your meadow-grass,Lush, green,You stand serene.* * *Houses are like the hearts of men,I think;They must have life within,(This is their meat and drink),They must have fires and friends and kin,Love for the day and night,Children in strong young laps:Then they live—then!Houses and hearts of men,Joyful and woeful,Haunted perhaps;Loving, forgetting,Loved and forgot,Fading at last, to die,Crumble and rot:But they who know you, Abrigada,They and IForget you not.* * *Nor they who standOn Abrigada’s roof,(Red-tiled, aloof),Who climb as I climb now,Withdrawn from reach of hand,From call of crowd,Looking down on distance, dune and bough,And looking up on distance, cloud and cloud.Only not looking back!For it is well finally to forgetThe thirst, the much-lipped cup,The plethora, the piteous lack,The broken things, the stains, the scars—Well to look up and up:To dream undaunted dreams aloudAnd stumble toward the stars!* * *This be in praiseOf Abrigada,In all the waysThat come to meThrough the mild midsummer days.In speech;In rhyme and rhythm of written word—Name it a poem, maybe!In song:Tuck the brown shining wood under my chin—My bird,My heart,My violin!In dream;In prayer;In silence, best of all,Leaning thereOn the beloved wall.In silence like a cry,Ardent and high;A note of Abrigada’s silenceSung to a quiet sky.
I had been toldA foolish tale:Of stone, dank, cold.But you,Erect to winter storm,To clutch of frosty-fingered gale,Are warm.
I had been told
A foolish tale:
Of stone, dank, cold.
But you,
Erect to winter storm,
To clutch of frosty-fingered gale,
Are warm.
I thought that stone was silent too,Unmoved by beauty,Unaware of season or of mirth,(Stern sister of quiet earth),But I hear laughter, singing, as I layMy face against your graySurely I hear a rhythm of near wavesAnd sense the leaping spray,Mixed with wild-rose and honeysuckle,Budding sassafras,And the cool breath of pungent leafy bay?
I thought that stone was silent too,
Unmoved by beauty,
Unaware of season or of mirth,
(Stern sister of quiet earth),
But I hear laughter, singing, as I lay
My face against your gray
Surely I hear a rhythm of near waves
And sense the leaping spray,
Mixed with wild-rose and honeysuckle,
Budding sassafras,
And the cool breath of pungent leafy bay?
I knew that walls were shelteringAnd strong,But you have sheltered love so longThat love is partOf your straight towering,Lifting you straighter still,As heart lifts heart—
I knew that walls were sheltering
And strong,
But you have sheltered love so long
That love is part
Of your straight towering,
Lifting you straighter still,
As heart lifts heart—
Hush—How the Whip-poor-willWails from his bush,The thrushIs garrulous with delight,There is a rapture in that liquid monotone:“Bob-White! Bob-White!”(Dear living stone!)* * *In the great room below,Where arches hold the listening spaces,Flames crackle, toss and gleamIn the red fire-places;Memories dream—Of other memories, perhaps,Of other lives;Of birthsAnd of re-births that men deem death;Of voices, foot-steps tapping the stone floor,And faces—faces—
Hush—
How the Whip-poor-will
Wails from his bush,
The thrush
Is garrulous with delight,
There is a rapture in that liquid monotone:
“Bob-White! Bob-White!”
(Dear living stone!)
* * *
In the great room below,
Where arches hold the listening spaces,
Flames crackle, toss and gleam
In the red fire-places;
Memories dream—
Of other memories, perhaps,
Of other lives;
Of births
And of re-births that men deem death;
Of voices, foot-steps tapping the stone floor,
And faces—faces—
Beyond, the open door,The meadow drowsy with the moon,The mild outline of dune,The lake, the silver magic in the trees:Walls, you are one with these.* * *Up on the loggia-roof,Under stars pale as they,Two silent ones have crept away,Seeking the deeper silence lovers know;Into the drifting shadows of the night,Into the aching beauty of the nightThey dare to go.
Beyond, the open door,
The meadow drowsy with the moon,
The mild outline of dune,
The lake, the silver magic in the trees:
Walls, you are one with these.
* * *
Up on the loggia-roof,
Under stars pale as they,
Two silent ones have crept away,
Seeking the deeper silence lovers know;
Into the drifting shadows of the night,
Into the aching beauty of the night
They dare to go.
The moonIs a vast cocoon,Spinning her wild white threadAcross the sky;A thousand crickets croonTheir sharp-edged lullaby;I hear a murmuring of lips on lips:“All that I am, beloved—All—”(Lovers’ eternal cry!)Hold them still closer, wall!* * *You stand serene.The salt winds linger, leanUpon your breast;The mistLifts up a gray face to be kissed;The east and westHang you with banners,Flaunt their brief victories of dusk and dawn;Seasons salute you as they pass,Call to you and are gone.Amid your meadow-grass,Lush, green,You stand serene.* * *Houses are like the hearts of men,I think;They must have life within,(This is their meat and drink),They must have fires and friends and kin,Love for the day and night,Children in strong young laps:Then they live—then!Houses and hearts of men,Joyful and woeful,Haunted perhaps;
The moon
Is a vast cocoon,
Spinning her wild white thread
Across the sky;
A thousand crickets croon
Their sharp-edged lullaby;
I hear a murmuring of lips on lips:
“All that I am, beloved—
All—”
(Lovers’ eternal cry!)
Hold them still closer, wall!
* * *
You stand serene.
The salt winds linger, lean
Upon your breast;
The mist
Lifts up a gray face to be kissed;
The east and west
Hang you with banners,
Flaunt their brief victories of dusk and dawn;
Seasons salute you as they pass,
Call to you and are gone.
Amid your meadow-grass,
Lush, green,
You stand serene.
* * *
Houses are like the hearts of men,
I think;
They must have life within,
(This is their meat and drink),
They must have fires and friends and kin,
Love for the day and night,
Children in strong young laps:
Then they live—then!
Houses and hearts of men,
Joyful and woeful,
Haunted perhaps;
Loving, forgetting,Loved and forgot,Fading at last, to die,Crumble and rot:
Loving, forgetting,
Loved and forgot,
Fading at last, to die,
Crumble and rot:
But they who know you, Abrigada,They and IForget you not.* * *Nor they who standOn Abrigada’s roof,(Red-tiled, aloof),Who climb as I climb now,Withdrawn from reach of hand,From call of crowd,Looking down on distance, dune and bough,And looking up on distance, cloud and cloud.
But they who know you, Abrigada,
They and I
Forget you not.
* * *
Nor they who stand
On Abrigada’s roof,
(Red-tiled, aloof),
Who climb as I climb now,
Withdrawn from reach of hand,
From call of crowd,
Looking down on distance, dune and bough,
And looking up on distance, cloud and cloud.
Only not looking back!For it is well finally to forgetThe thirst, the much-lipped cup,The plethora, the piteous lack,The broken things, the stains, the scars—
Only not looking back!
For it is well finally to forget
The thirst, the much-lipped cup,
The plethora, the piteous lack,
The broken things, the stains, the scars—
Well to look up and up:To dream undaunted dreams aloudAnd stumble toward the stars!* * *This be in praiseOf Abrigada,In all the waysThat come to meThrough the mild midsummer days.
Well to look up and up:
To dream undaunted dreams aloud
And stumble toward the stars!
* * *
This be in praise
Of Abrigada,
In all the ways
That come to me
Through the mild midsummer days.
In speech;In rhyme and rhythm of written word—Name it a poem, maybe!
In speech;
In rhyme and rhythm of written word—
Name it a poem, maybe!
In song:Tuck the brown shining wood under my chin—My bird,My heart,My violin!
In song:
Tuck the brown shining wood under my chin—
My bird,
My heart,
My violin!
In dream;In prayer;In silence, best of all,Leaning thereOn the beloved wall.
In dream;
In prayer;
In silence, best of all,
Leaning there
On the beloved wall.
In silence like a cry,Ardent and high;A note of Abrigada’s silenceSung to a quiet sky.
In silence like a cry,
Ardent and high;
A note of Abrigada’s silence
Sung to a quiet sky.