The Project Gutenberg eBook ofOrchard and VineyardThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Orchard and VineyardAuthor: V. Sackville-WestRelease date: August 20, 2015 [eBook #49740]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by MWS, Chuck Greif and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/Canadian Libraries)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ORCHARD AND VINEYARD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Orchard and VineyardAuthor: V. Sackville-WestRelease date: August 20, 2015 [eBook #49740]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by MWS, Chuck Greif and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
Title: Orchard and Vineyard
Author: V. Sackville-West
Author: V. Sackville-West
Release date: August 20, 2015 [eBook #49740]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by MWS, Chuck Greif and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ORCHARD AND VINEYARD ***
ORCHARD AND VINEYARD
V. SACKVILLE-WESTLONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LTD., VIGO ST., W.NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANYMCMXXITO——Printed in Great Britainby Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh
Some of these poems have already appeared inThe London Mercury,The Observer,Country Life,The Woman’s Leader,The Anglo-French Review; to the editors of these papers I am indebted for permission to republish.
V. S.-W.
ALL her youth is gone, her beautiful youth outworn,Daughter of tarn and tor, the moors that were once her homeNo longer know her step on the upland tracks forlornWhere she was wont to roam.All her hounds are dead, her beautiful hounds are dead,That paced beside the hoofs of her high and nimble horse,Or streaked in lean pursuit of the tawny hare that fledOut of the yellow gorse.All her lovers have passed, her beautiful lovers have passed,The young and eager men that fought for her arrogant hand,And the only voice which endures to mourn for her at the lastIs the voice of the lonely land.
ALL her youth is gone, her beautiful youth outworn,Daughter of tarn and tor, the moors that were once her homeNo longer know her step on the upland tracks forlornWhere she was wont to roam.All her hounds are dead, her beautiful hounds are dead,That paced beside the hoofs of her high and nimble horse,Or streaked in lean pursuit of the tawny hare that fledOut of the yellow gorse.All her lovers have passed, her beautiful lovers have passed,The young and eager men that fought for her arrogant hand,And the only voice which endures to mourn for her at the lastIs the voice of the lonely land.
ALL her youth is gone, her beautiful youth outworn,Daughter of tarn and tor, the moors that were once her homeNo longer know her step on the upland tracks forlornWhere she was wont to roam.
All her hounds are dead, her beautiful hounds are dead,That paced beside the hoofs of her high and nimble horse,Or streaked in lean pursuit of the tawny hare that fledOut of the yellow gorse.
All her lovers have passed, her beautiful lovers have passed,The young and eager men that fought for her arrogant hand,And the only voice which endures to mourn for her at the lastIs the voice of the lonely land.
HE sat among the shadows lost,And heard the careless voice speak onOf life when he was gone from home,Of days that he had made his own,Familiar schemes that he had known,And dates that he had cherished mostAs star-points in the year to come,And he was suddenly alone,Thinking (not bitterly,But with a grave regret) that heWas in that room a ghost.He sat among the shades apart,The careless voice he scarcely heard.In that arrested hour there stirredShy birds of beauty in his heart.The clouds of March he would not seeAcross the sky race royally,Nor yet the drift of daffodilHe planted with so glad a hand,Nor yet the loveliness he plannedFor summer’s sequence to fulfil,Nor trace upon the hillThe annual waking of the land,Nor meditative standTo watch the turning of the mill.He would not pause above the WealdWith twilight falling dim,And mark the chequer-board of field,The water gleaming like a shield,The oast-house in the elms concealed,Nor see, from heaven’s chalice-rim,The vintaged sunset brim,Nor yet the high, suspended starHanging eternally afar.These things would be, but not for him.At summer noon he would not lieOne with his cutter’s rise and dip,Free with the wind and sea and sky,And watch the dappled waves go by,The sea-gulls scream and slip;White sails, white birds, white clouds, white foam,White cliffs that curled the love of homeAround him like a whip....He would not see that summer noonFade into dusk from light,While he on shifting waters brightSailed idly on, beneath the moonClimbing the dome of night.This was his dream of happy thingsThat he had loved through many springs,And never more might know.But man must pass the shrouded gateCompanioned by his secret fate,And he must lonely go,And none can help or understand,For other men may touch his hand,But none the soul below.
HE sat among the shadows lost,And heard the careless voice speak onOf life when he was gone from home,Of days that he had made his own,Familiar schemes that he had known,And dates that he had cherished mostAs star-points in the year to come,And he was suddenly alone,Thinking (not bitterly,But with a grave regret) that heWas in that room a ghost.He sat among the shades apart,The careless voice he scarcely heard.In that arrested hour there stirredShy birds of beauty in his heart.The clouds of March he would not seeAcross the sky race royally,Nor yet the drift of daffodilHe planted with so glad a hand,Nor yet the loveliness he plannedFor summer’s sequence to fulfil,Nor trace upon the hillThe annual waking of the land,Nor meditative standTo watch the turning of the mill.He would not pause above the WealdWith twilight falling dim,And mark the chequer-board of field,The water gleaming like a shield,The oast-house in the elms concealed,Nor see, from heaven’s chalice-rim,The vintaged sunset brim,Nor yet the high, suspended starHanging eternally afar.These things would be, but not for him.At summer noon he would not lieOne with his cutter’s rise and dip,Free with the wind and sea and sky,And watch the dappled waves go by,The sea-gulls scream and slip;White sails, white birds, white clouds, white foam,White cliffs that curled the love of homeAround him like a whip....He would not see that summer noonFade into dusk from light,While he on shifting waters brightSailed idly on, beneath the moonClimbing the dome of night.This was his dream of happy thingsThat he had loved through many springs,And never more might know.But man must pass the shrouded gateCompanioned by his secret fate,And he must lonely go,And none can help or understand,For other men may touch his hand,But none the soul below.
HE sat among the shadows lost,And heard the careless voice speak onOf life when he was gone from home,Of days that he had made his own,Familiar schemes that he had known,And dates that he had cherished mostAs star-points in the year to come,And he was suddenly alone,Thinking (not bitterly,But with a grave regret) that heWas in that room a ghost.
He sat among the shades apart,The careless voice he scarcely heard.In that arrested hour there stirredShy birds of beauty in his heart.
The clouds of March he would not seeAcross the sky race royally,Nor yet the drift of daffodilHe planted with so glad a hand,Nor yet the loveliness he plannedFor summer’s sequence to fulfil,Nor trace upon the hillThe annual waking of the land,Nor meditative standTo watch the turning of the mill.
He would not pause above the WealdWith twilight falling dim,And mark the chequer-board of field,The water gleaming like a shield,The oast-house in the elms concealed,Nor see, from heaven’s chalice-rim,The vintaged sunset brim,Nor yet the high, suspended starHanging eternally afar.
These things would be, but not for him.
At summer noon he would not lieOne with his cutter’s rise and dip,Free with the wind and sea and sky,And watch the dappled waves go by,The sea-gulls scream and slip;White sails, white birds, white clouds, white foam,White cliffs that curled the love of homeAround him like a whip....He would not see that summer noonFade into dusk from light,While he on shifting waters brightSailed idly on, beneath the moonClimbing the dome of night.
This was his dream of happy thingsThat he had loved through many springs,And never more might know.But man must pass the shrouded gateCompanioned by his secret fate,And he must lonely go,And none can help or understand,For other men may touch his hand,But none the soul below.
THEY roll, clan by clan, kin by kin, on wide orderly roads,Burghers and citizens all, in a stately procession,Driving before them the wealth of their worldly possession,Cattle, and horses, and pack-mules with sumptuous loads.In velvet and fur and fat pearls,—rich lustre and sheen,Paunches and plenty, and fatuous voices contentedCounting their gain, and their women all jewelled and scentedSmiling false smiles with the little sharp word in between.But those in the by-paths of vagrancy, star-gazers, they,Ragged and feckless and young, with no thought but their singing,Derisive of gain, and light as the bird in its winging,Stopping to kiss or to frolic, the simple and gay,God’s fools,—the belovèd of God who made them and the wind,Gipsies and wastrels of life, the heedless of warning,Chasing the butterfly now on the breeze of the morning,Laugh at the passing procession that leaves them behind.
THEY roll, clan by clan, kin by kin, on wide orderly roads,Burghers and citizens all, in a stately procession,Driving before them the wealth of their worldly possession,Cattle, and horses, and pack-mules with sumptuous loads.In velvet and fur and fat pearls,—rich lustre and sheen,Paunches and plenty, and fatuous voices contentedCounting their gain, and their women all jewelled and scentedSmiling false smiles with the little sharp word in between.But those in the by-paths of vagrancy, star-gazers, they,Ragged and feckless and young, with no thought but their singing,Derisive of gain, and light as the bird in its winging,Stopping to kiss or to frolic, the simple and gay,God’s fools,—the belovèd of God who made them and the wind,Gipsies and wastrels of life, the heedless of warning,Chasing the butterfly now on the breeze of the morning,Laugh at the passing procession that leaves them behind.
THEY roll, clan by clan, kin by kin, on wide orderly roads,Burghers and citizens all, in a stately procession,Driving before them the wealth of their worldly possession,Cattle, and horses, and pack-mules with sumptuous loads.
In velvet and fur and fat pearls,—rich lustre and sheen,Paunches and plenty, and fatuous voices contentedCounting their gain, and their women all jewelled and scentedSmiling false smiles with the little sharp word in between.
But those in the by-paths of vagrancy, star-gazers, they,Ragged and feckless and young, with no thought but their singing,Derisive of gain, and light as the bird in its winging,Stopping to kiss or to frolic, the simple and gay,
God’s fools,—the belovèd of God who made them and the wind,Gipsies and wastrels of life, the heedless of warning,Chasing the butterfly now on the breeze of the morning,Laugh at the passing procession that leaves them behind.
CLAMOUR has riven us, clamour and din.My hand reaches blindly out for your hand, but withinMy mind cannot reach to your mind, because of the clamour and din.Clang as of brass, an uproar that will not cease.I would take from the strangest god or devil the gift of peace.If the strife that divides us were suddenly stilled and would ceaseI could come to you, come under washed void skies,My thought in your thought embraced, my eyes and your eyesLevelly meeting without the quick faltering of disguise.But all is a harshness and rack where in vainWe strive through the grossness of flesh to discover our souls again,And the closer we clasp one another, the further apart remain.
CLAMOUR has riven us, clamour and din.My hand reaches blindly out for your hand, but withinMy mind cannot reach to your mind, because of the clamour and din.Clang as of brass, an uproar that will not cease.I would take from the strangest god or devil the gift of peace.If the strife that divides us were suddenly stilled and would ceaseI could come to you, come under washed void skies,My thought in your thought embraced, my eyes and your eyesLevelly meeting without the quick faltering of disguise.But all is a harshness and rack where in vainWe strive through the grossness of flesh to discover our souls again,And the closer we clasp one another, the further apart remain.
CLAMOUR has riven us, clamour and din.My hand reaches blindly out for your hand, but withinMy mind cannot reach to your mind, because of the clamour and din.
Clang as of brass, an uproar that will not cease.I would take from the strangest god or devil the gift of peace.If the strife that divides us were suddenly stilled and would cease
I could come to you, come under washed void skies,My thought in your thought embraced, my eyes and your eyesLevelly meeting without the quick faltering of disguise.
But all is a harshness and rack where in vainWe strive through the grossness of flesh to discover our souls again,And the closer we clasp one another, the further apart remain.
HOW slender, simple, shy, divinely chaste,She wilting stood,Her suppleness at pause, by leisure graced,In robes archaic by the chisel woo’d,That smoothly flowed around her waistAnd all her figure traced,And at her feet in fluid ripples broke;A Vestal virgin! but she rather seemedThe Hamadryad of the sculpted oakSince in that oaken raiment she for ever dreamed.One finger to her lips she raised,And turned her dubious glances wideAs one who forward to the future gazed,But her reluctant body swerved awayAs one who held her bounty back with pride.“Forbear!” her hesitation seemed to say,While her exulting soul for instant capture cried.And she was ageless; leisure unperturbedLay like a light across her browAnd sanctified her vow;But that uplifted hand from its austerityAnother spirit stirred,Spirit of grace, spirit of fantasy,The wayward spirit of the pagan tree.Had she stood dreaming by the water’s verge,Her branches mirrored in the forest poolWhere plashing sunlight flickered and was cool?Did she so standBefore the sculptor with his mortal handSummoned the mortal maiden to emerge?And did she open eyes upon a placeAll pied and jewelled with the flowers wild,With king-cups and the pretty daisy mild,With periwinkle sulking like a child,And little orchis with his puckered face,And campion too?Did these, when first they saw her, raceAround her feet like tiny rivulets?The bluebells shake for joy? the violets,Thinking that other Virgin full of graceWas come amongst them, blush a deeper blue?Was this her birth upon a world of men,Where any painter might have seized his hour,Breathing her swiftly on the canvas then,Among the lowly flowers a taller flower?Or any sculptor on the marble limnHer slenderness serene, her beauty’s dower,Her lifted hand, her smooth and fragile limb,Learning a greater art from her than she from him?So in the prison of her perfect shapeShe dwelt for ever virginal, adored,Whence she might never know escape,Might never know what mystery lay storedBeyond the threshold she might never pass,But where for ever poised and wavering she was,Threshold of waking youth, as bright and narrow as a sword.
HOW slender, simple, shy, divinely chaste,She wilting stood,Her suppleness at pause, by leisure graced,In robes archaic by the chisel woo’d,That smoothly flowed around her waistAnd all her figure traced,And at her feet in fluid ripples broke;A Vestal virgin! but she rather seemedThe Hamadryad of the sculpted oakSince in that oaken raiment she for ever dreamed.One finger to her lips she raised,And turned her dubious glances wideAs one who forward to the future gazed,But her reluctant body swerved awayAs one who held her bounty back with pride.“Forbear!” her hesitation seemed to say,While her exulting soul for instant capture cried.And she was ageless; leisure unperturbedLay like a light across her browAnd sanctified her vow;But that uplifted hand from its austerityAnother spirit stirred,Spirit of grace, spirit of fantasy,The wayward spirit of the pagan tree.Had she stood dreaming by the water’s verge,Her branches mirrored in the forest poolWhere plashing sunlight flickered and was cool?Did she so standBefore the sculptor with his mortal handSummoned the mortal maiden to emerge?And did she open eyes upon a placeAll pied and jewelled with the flowers wild,With king-cups and the pretty daisy mild,With periwinkle sulking like a child,And little orchis with his puckered face,And campion too?Did these, when first they saw her, raceAround her feet like tiny rivulets?The bluebells shake for joy? the violets,Thinking that other Virgin full of graceWas come amongst them, blush a deeper blue?Was this her birth upon a world of men,Where any painter might have seized his hour,Breathing her swiftly on the canvas then,Among the lowly flowers a taller flower?Or any sculptor on the marble limnHer slenderness serene, her beauty’s dower,Her lifted hand, her smooth and fragile limb,Learning a greater art from her than she from him?So in the prison of her perfect shapeShe dwelt for ever virginal, adored,Whence she might never know escape,Might never know what mystery lay storedBeyond the threshold she might never pass,But where for ever poised and wavering she was,Threshold of waking youth, as bright and narrow as a sword.
HOW slender, simple, shy, divinely chaste,She wilting stood,Her suppleness at pause, by leisure graced,In robes archaic by the chisel woo’d,That smoothly flowed around her waistAnd all her figure traced,And at her feet in fluid ripples broke;A Vestal virgin! but she rather seemedThe Hamadryad of the sculpted oakSince in that oaken raiment she for ever dreamed.
One finger to her lips she raised,And turned her dubious glances wideAs one who forward to the future gazed,But her reluctant body swerved awayAs one who held her bounty back with pride.“Forbear!” her hesitation seemed to say,While her exulting soul for instant capture cried.
And she was ageless; leisure unperturbedLay like a light across her browAnd sanctified her vow;But that uplifted hand from its austerityAnother spirit stirred,Spirit of grace, spirit of fantasy,The wayward spirit of the pagan tree.
Had she stood dreaming by the water’s verge,Her branches mirrored in the forest poolWhere plashing sunlight flickered and was cool?Did she so standBefore the sculptor with his mortal handSummoned the mortal maiden to emerge?And did she open eyes upon a placeAll pied and jewelled with the flowers wild,With king-cups and the pretty daisy mild,With periwinkle sulking like a child,And little orchis with his puckered face,And campion too?Did these, when first they saw her, raceAround her feet like tiny rivulets?The bluebells shake for joy? the violets,Thinking that other Virgin full of graceWas come amongst them, blush a deeper blue?
Was this her birth upon a world of men,Where any painter might have seized his hour,Breathing her swiftly on the canvas then,Among the lowly flowers a taller flower?Or any sculptor on the marble limnHer slenderness serene, her beauty’s dower,Her lifted hand, her smooth and fragile limb,Learning a greater art from her than she from him?
So in the prison of her perfect shapeShe dwelt for ever virginal, adored,Whence she might never know escape,Might never know what mystery lay storedBeyond the threshold she might never pass,But where for ever poised and wavering she was,Threshold of waking youth, as bright and narrow as a sword.
SO well she knew them both! yet as she cameInto the room, and heard their speechOf tragic meshes knotted with her name,And saw them, foes, but meeting each with eachCloser than friends, souls bared through enmity,Beneath their startled gaze she thought that sheBroke as the stranger on their conference,And left them as she stole abashed from thence.
SO well she knew them both! yet as she cameInto the room, and heard their speechOf tragic meshes knotted with her name,And saw them, foes, but meeting each with eachCloser than friends, souls bared through enmity,Beneath their startled gaze she thought that sheBroke as the stranger on their conference,And left them as she stole abashed from thence.
SO well she knew them both! yet as she cameInto the room, and heard their speechOf tragic meshes knotted with her name,And saw them, foes, but meeting each with eachCloser than friends, souls bared through enmity,Beneath their startled gaze she thought that sheBroke as the stranger on their conference,And left them as she stole abashed from thence.
I wish you thought me faithless, when withinMy heart I knew my innocence from sin.I wish that I might tell you fables blitheOf my misdeeds, and smile to see you writhe.This I could bear; I cannot bear that youShould think me faithful, when I am untrue.
I wish you thought me faithless, when withinMy heart I knew my innocence from sin.I wish that I might tell you fables blitheOf my misdeeds, and smile to see you writhe.This I could bear; I cannot bear that youShould think me faithful, when I am untrue.
I wish you thought me faithless, when withinMy heart I knew my innocence from sin.
I wish that I might tell you fables blitheOf my misdeeds, and smile to see you writhe.
This I could bear; I cannot bear that youShould think me faithful, when I am untrue.
I wait your coming as a miracle,And the expectant morning waits with me;Time hangs suspended as a quiet bellThat once did strike the hours successively,For over all the country lies a spell,A hush, a painted stillness, where I see(As calm as skies reflected in a well)The fields enchanted, waiting silently.
I wait your coming as a miracle,And the expectant morning waits with me;Time hangs suspended as a quiet bellThat once did strike the hours successively,For over all the country lies a spell,A hush, a painted stillness, where I see(As calm as skies reflected in a well)The fields enchanted, waiting silently.
I wait your coming as a miracle,And the expectant morning waits with me;Time hangs suspended as a quiet bellThat once did strike the hours successively,For over all the country lies a spell,A hush, a painted stillness, where I see(As calm as skies reflected in a well)The fields enchanted, waiting silently.
OH, heart! the beauty of your wind-swept hairBlown from your temples as you swiftly came!For all the pagan grace of you was there,Remembered, ardent, after months the same.The eager muscles of your throat were bare,The candid passion lit you like a flame,As, striving on against the countering air,You reached me, failing, breathing out my name.
OH, heart! the beauty of your wind-swept hairBlown from your temples as you swiftly came!For all the pagan grace of you was there,Remembered, ardent, after months the same.The eager muscles of your throat were bare,The candid passion lit you like a flame,As, striving on against the countering air,You reached me, failing, breathing out my name.
OH, heart! the beauty of your wind-swept hairBlown from your temples as you swiftly came!For all the pagan grace of you was there,Remembered, ardent, after months the same.The eager muscles of your throat were bare,The candid passion lit you like a flame,As, striving on against the countering air,You reached me, failing, breathing out my name.
WELL-GREAVED Achaians; lordliest Atreides;Great-hearted friendship, foes no lesser-hearted;Murmur of leaves on distant Latmos; cooOf doves on Thisbe; pasture-land of horses,Argos! and thou, the windy-beached Enispe;Achaian fleet on that unvintaged sea,Vessels of bronze and scarlet, beaked with gold,In great procession Troy-wards, ranging wideOver wide waters, bearing mighty captains,Sons of the gods, the fosterlings of Zeus,Casters of spear and javelin, fleet-footedOr wise in council, flowing-haired Achaians,—This was my epic and my company.For you, Tintagel pinnacled on rocksEmerged from desolate chords, until your moodWearied of saga; melted to the duskFalling on Spanish cities, when the shuttersOpen again on evening, and the fluteOf some stray passing goat-herd down the streetPipes idly, or the strident gay guitarBefriends the lover’s whisper at the window;For you sat playing, and your fingers roamedTo Russia, where the simple is the blessed,And woke both melancholy pomp and folly,And passed again to fantasy that isHomeless, and shies away from thoughts of home.I read; you played; we had no need of speech.They came, noisy and shrill, well-meaning; theySpoke to us first of wealth and then of love,The love of others, negligently shrewdAnd empty in their chatter. Then they spoke,Wise and judicious, and we answered them,Judicious likewise, flattering their mood.But our eyes found each other, and we fellSuddenly silent, caught in treachery,Remembering that proud world wherein we dwelt erstwhile.
WELL-GREAVED Achaians; lordliest Atreides;Great-hearted friendship, foes no lesser-hearted;Murmur of leaves on distant Latmos; cooOf doves on Thisbe; pasture-land of horses,Argos! and thou, the windy-beached Enispe;Achaian fleet on that unvintaged sea,Vessels of bronze and scarlet, beaked with gold,In great procession Troy-wards, ranging wideOver wide waters, bearing mighty captains,Sons of the gods, the fosterlings of Zeus,Casters of spear and javelin, fleet-footedOr wise in council, flowing-haired Achaians,—This was my epic and my company.For you, Tintagel pinnacled on rocksEmerged from desolate chords, until your moodWearied of saga; melted to the duskFalling on Spanish cities, when the shuttersOpen again on evening, and the fluteOf some stray passing goat-herd down the streetPipes idly, or the strident gay guitarBefriends the lover’s whisper at the window;For you sat playing, and your fingers roamedTo Russia, where the simple is the blessed,And woke both melancholy pomp and folly,And passed again to fantasy that isHomeless, and shies away from thoughts of home.I read; you played; we had no need of speech.They came, noisy and shrill, well-meaning; theySpoke to us first of wealth and then of love,The love of others, negligently shrewdAnd empty in their chatter. Then they spoke,Wise and judicious, and we answered them,Judicious likewise, flattering their mood.But our eyes found each other, and we fellSuddenly silent, caught in treachery,Remembering that proud world wherein we dwelt erstwhile.
WELL-GREAVED Achaians; lordliest Atreides;Great-hearted friendship, foes no lesser-hearted;Murmur of leaves on distant Latmos; cooOf doves on Thisbe; pasture-land of horses,Argos! and thou, the windy-beached Enispe;Achaian fleet on that unvintaged sea,Vessels of bronze and scarlet, beaked with gold,In great procession Troy-wards, ranging wideOver wide waters, bearing mighty captains,Sons of the gods, the fosterlings of Zeus,Casters of spear and javelin, fleet-footedOr wise in council, flowing-haired Achaians,—This was my epic and my company.
For you, Tintagel pinnacled on rocksEmerged from desolate chords, until your moodWearied of saga; melted to the duskFalling on Spanish cities, when the shuttersOpen again on evening, and the fluteOf some stray passing goat-herd down the streetPipes idly, or the strident gay guitarBefriends the lover’s whisper at the window;For you sat playing, and your fingers roamedTo Russia, where the simple is the blessed,And woke both melancholy pomp and folly,And passed again to fantasy that isHomeless, and shies away from thoughts of home.I read; you played; we had no need of speech.
They came, noisy and shrill, well-meaning; theySpoke to us first of wealth and then of love,The love of others, negligently shrewdAnd empty in their chatter. Then they spoke,Wise and judicious, and we answered them,Judicious likewise, flattering their mood.But our eyes found each other, and we fellSuddenly silent, caught in treachery,Remembering that proud world wherein we dwelt erstwhile.
BECAUSE I knew you fickle as the flameAnd sweet as music irresponsible,Because I knew no walls could tameYour vagrancy within their certain shell,I raised for you a palace on a hillWhere all the spirits generous and freeMight drift at their unchidden will,Or tarry to salute you carelessly.A windy palace most fantastical,Whose halls stood full of light and resonance,Where slender fountains lyricalSpilled water like a stream of bright romance,And, high above the many spires, I hungA company of bells; with wanton handsThe happy wind shook out and swungTheir dimpling music over level lands.
BECAUSE I knew you fickle as the flameAnd sweet as music irresponsible,Because I knew no walls could tameYour vagrancy within their certain shell,I raised for you a palace on a hillWhere all the spirits generous and freeMight drift at their unchidden will,Or tarry to salute you carelessly.A windy palace most fantastical,Whose halls stood full of light and resonance,Where slender fountains lyricalSpilled water like a stream of bright romance,And, high above the many spires, I hungA company of bells; with wanton handsThe happy wind shook out and swungTheir dimpling music over level lands.
BECAUSE I knew you fickle as the flameAnd sweet as music irresponsible,Because I knew no walls could tameYour vagrancy within their certain shell,
I raised for you a palace on a hillWhere all the spirits generous and freeMight drift at their unchidden will,Or tarry to salute you carelessly.
A windy palace most fantastical,Whose halls stood full of light and resonance,Where slender fountains lyricalSpilled water like a stream of bright romance,
And, high above the many spires, I hungA company of bells; with wanton handsThe happy wind shook out and swungTheir dimpling music over level lands.
“I’ll take my yellow neckerchief,My coral beads I’ll wear;Green ivy-chains shall loop my dress,And ivy-chains shall loop my hair.“What pretty gyves, such pretty gyves!See how with tendril twistsThey twine a halter round my throatAnd make soft captives of my wrists.“I’ll leave my shoes beside the stream,And creep on noiseless feetBetween the willows all amongThe iris and the meadow-sweet.”She slips from willow-tree to tree,Holding one finger pressedAgainst her lips; her other handLies lightly moulded on her breast,And peeping, laughing all the day,She rambles up and down,But I, unseen, have seen her goWith ivy slung about her gown.
“I’ll take my yellow neckerchief,My coral beads I’ll wear;Green ivy-chains shall loop my dress,And ivy-chains shall loop my hair.“What pretty gyves, such pretty gyves!See how with tendril twistsThey twine a halter round my throatAnd make soft captives of my wrists.“I’ll leave my shoes beside the stream,And creep on noiseless feetBetween the willows all amongThe iris and the meadow-sweet.”She slips from willow-tree to tree,Holding one finger pressedAgainst her lips; her other handLies lightly moulded on her breast,And peeping, laughing all the day,She rambles up and down,But I, unseen, have seen her goWith ivy slung about her gown.
“I’ll take my yellow neckerchief,My coral beads I’ll wear;Green ivy-chains shall loop my dress,And ivy-chains shall loop my hair.
“What pretty gyves, such pretty gyves!See how with tendril twistsThey twine a halter round my throatAnd make soft captives of my wrists.
“I’ll leave my shoes beside the stream,And creep on noiseless feetBetween the willows all amongThe iris and the meadow-sweet.”
She slips from willow-tree to tree,Holding one finger pressedAgainst her lips; her other handLies lightly moulded on her breast,
And peeping, laughing all the day,She rambles up and down,But I, unseen, have seen her goWith ivy slung about her gown.
COME, shall we go, my comrade, from this denWhere falsehood reigns and we have dallied long?Exchange the curious vanities of menFor roads of freedom and for ships of song?We came as strangers, came to learn and look,To hear their music, drink the wine they gave.Now let us hence again; the happy brookShall quench our thirst, our music be the wave.Come! they are feasting, let us steal away.Beyond the doors the night awaits us, sweet.To-morrow we shall see the break of day,And goat-herds’ pipes shall lead our roaming feet.
COME, shall we go, my comrade, from this denWhere falsehood reigns and we have dallied long?Exchange the curious vanities of menFor roads of freedom and for ships of song?We came as strangers, came to learn and look,To hear their music, drink the wine they gave.Now let us hence again; the happy brookShall quench our thirst, our music be the wave.Come! they are feasting, let us steal away.Beyond the doors the night awaits us, sweet.To-morrow we shall see the break of day,And goat-herds’ pipes shall lead our roaming feet.
COME, shall we go, my comrade, from this denWhere falsehood reigns and we have dallied long?Exchange the curious vanities of menFor roads of freedom and for ships of song?
We came as strangers, came to learn and look,To hear their music, drink the wine they gave.Now let us hence again; the happy brookShall quench our thirst, our music be the wave.
Come! they are feasting, let us steal away.Beyond the doors the night awaits us, sweet.To-morrow we shall see the break of day,And goat-herds’ pipes shall lead our roaming feet.
YOU laughed, and all the fountains of the EastLeapt up to Heaven with their diamond rainTo hang in light, and when your laughter ceasedDropped shivered arrows to the ground again.You laughed, and from the belfries of the earthThe music rippled like a shaken pool;And listless banners at the breeze of mirthWere stirred in harbours suddenly made cool.You wept, and all the music of the air—As when a hand is laid upon a bell—Was stilled, and Dryads of the tossing hairCrept back abashed within the secret dell.
YOU laughed, and all the fountains of the EastLeapt up to Heaven with their diamond rainTo hang in light, and when your laughter ceasedDropped shivered arrows to the ground again.You laughed, and from the belfries of the earthThe music rippled like a shaken pool;And listless banners at the breeze of mirthWere stirred in harbours suddenly made cool.You wept, and all the music of the air—As when a hand is laid upon a bell—Was stilled, and Dryads of the tossing hairCrept back abashed within the secret dell.
YOU laughed, and all the fountains of the EastLeapt up to Heaven with their diamond rainTo hang in light, and when your laughter ceasedDropped shivered arrows to the ground again.
You laughed, and from the belfries of the earthThe music rippled like a shaken pool;And listless banners at the breeze of mirthWere stirred in harbours suddenly made cool.
You wept, and all the music of the air—As when a hand is laid upon a bell—Was stilled, and Dryads of the tossing hairCrept back abashed within the secret dell.
YES, they were kind exceedingly; most mildEven in indignation, taking by the handOne that obeyed them mutely, as a childSubmissive to a law he does not understand.They would not blame the sins his passion wrought.No, they were tolerant and Christian, saying, “WeOnly deplore ...” saying they only soughtTo help him, strengthen him, to show him love; but heFollowing them with unrecalcitrant tread,Quiet, towards their town of kind captivities,Having slain rebellion, ever turned his headOver his shoulder, seeking still with his poor eyesHer motionless figure on the road. The songRang still between them, vibrant bell to answering bell,Full of young glory as a bugle; strong;Still brave; now breaking like a sea-bird’s cry “Farewell!”And they, they whispered kindly to him “Come!Now we have rescued you. Let your heart heal. Forget!She was your danger and your evil spirit.” Dumb,He listened, and they thought him acquiescent. Yet,(Knowing the while that they were very kind)Remembrance clamoured in him: “She was wild and free,Magnificent in giving; she was blindTo gain or loss, and, loving, loved but me,—but me!“Valiant she was, and comradely, and bold;High-mettled; all her thoughts a challenge, like gay shipsAdventurous, with treasure in the hold.I met her with the lesson put into my lips,“Spoke reason to her, and she bowed her head,Having no argument, and giving up the strife.She said I should be free. I think she saidThat, for the asking, she would give me all her life.”And still they led him onwards, and he stillLooked back towards her standing there; and they, content,Cheered him and praised him that he did their will.The gradual distance hid them, and she turned, and went.
YES, they were kind exceedingly; most mildEven in indignation, taking by the handOne that obeyed them mutely, as a childSubmissive to a law he does not understand.They would not blame the sins his passion wrought.No, they were tolerant and Christian, saying, “WeOnly deplore ...” saying they only soughtTo help him, strengthen him, to show him love; but heFollowing them with unrecalcitrant tread,Quiet, towards their town of kind captivities,Having slain rebellion, ever turned his headOver his shoulder, seeking still with his poor eyesHer motionless figure on the road. The songRang still between them, vibrant bell to answering bell,Full of young glory as a bugle; strong;Still brave; now breaking like a sea-bird’s cry “Farewell!”And they, they whispered kindly to him “Come!Now we have rescued you. Let your heart heal. Forget!She was your danger and your evil spirit.” Dumb,He listened, and they thought him acquiescent. Yet,(Knowing the while that they were very kind)Remembrance clamoured in him: “She was wild and free,Magnificent in giving; she was blindTo gain or loss, and, loving, loved but me,—but me!“Valiant she was, and comradely, and bold;High-mettled; all her thoughts a challenge, like gay shipsAdventurous, with treasure in the hold.I met her with the lesson put into my lips,“Spoke reason to her, and she bowed her head,Having no argument, and giving up the strife.She said I should be free. I think she saidThat, for the asking, she would give me all her life.”And still they led him onwards, and he stillLooked back towards her standing there; and they, content,Cheered him and praised him that he did their will.The gradual distance hid them, and she turned, and went.
YES, they were kind exceedingly; most mildEven in indignation, taking by the handOne that obeyed them mutely, as a childSubmissive to a law he does not understand.
They would not blame the sins his passion wrought.No, they were tolerant and Christian, saying, “WeOnly deplore ...” saying they only soughtTo help him, strengthen him, to show him love; but he
Following them with unrecalcitrant tread,Quiet, towards their town of kind captivities,Having slain rebellion, ever turned his headOver his shoulder, seeking still with his poor eyes
Her motionless figure on the road. The songRang still between them, vibrant bell to answering bell,Full of young glory as a bugle; strong;Still brave; now breaking like a sea-bird’s cry “Farewell!”
And they, they whispered kindly to him “Come!Now we have rescued you. Let your heart heal. Forget!She was your danger and your evil spirit.” Dumb,He listened, and they thought him acquiescent. Yet,(Knowing the while that they were very kind)Remembrance clamoured in him: “She was wild and free,Magnificent in giving; she was blindTo gain or loss, and, loving, loved but me,—but me!
“Valiant she was, and comradely, and bold;High-mettled; all her thoughts a challenge, like gay shipsAdventurous, with treasure in the hold.I met her with the lesson put into my lips,
“Spoke reason to her, and she bowed her head,Having no argument, and giving up the strife.She said I should be free. I think she saidThat, for the asking, she would give me all her life.”
And still they led him onwards, and he stillLooked back towards her standing there; and they, content,Cheered him and praised him that he did their will.The gradual distance hid them, and she turned, and went.
HOPE held his hand and ran with him together.Despair, the coward, at their coming fled.Like a young ram, he shook his hornèd head,And broke away from his restraining tether.He loved the sea, he loved the cleansing flame;No woman yet, his heart was all too young;Over the plain of life his heart was flung,Seeking for jeopardies that he might tame.He cloaked his faith with laughter, but his faithWas certain, as his confidence was gay,And laughing went he, till on his last dayHis hands stretched out to life were clasped by death.
HOPE held his hand and ran with him together.Despair, the coward, at their coming fled.Like a young ram, he shook his hornèd head,And broke away from his restraining tether.He loved the sea, he loved the cleansing flame;No woman yet, his heart was all too young;Over the plain of life his heart was flung,Seeking for jeopardies that he might tame.He cloaked his faith with laughter, but his faithWas certain, as his confidence was gay,And laughing went he, till on his last dayHis hands stretched out to life were clasped by death.
HOPE held his hand and ran with him together.Despair, the coward, at their coming fled.Like a young ram, he shook his hornèd head,And broke away from his restraining tether.He loved the sea, he loved the cleansing flame;No woman yet, his heart was all too young;Over the plain of life his heart was flung,Seeking for jeopardies that he might tame.He cloaked his faith with laughter, but his faithWas certain, as his confidence was gay,And laughing went he, till on his last dayHis hands stretched out to life were clasped by death.
O redolent things most dear to Youth on earth,Friendship of other men; the hunter’s horn;The strong fatigue of practised limbs; the mirthOf little birds in coppices and corn;Work’s satisfaction; leisure’s bland delight;The grateful sinking into sleep at night;Speed, with the winds of heaven at your heels,And grimy Power, and all you brilliant onesThat leap and sparkle ’mid the din of wheels,A thousand little stars and little suns;And streets of cities threatening the sky;Cranes, wharves, and smoke in billows hanging high;O stately Bridge, the country’s arching frame,A needle’s eye to thread the river through;Free ships, that rove and perish without fame;Rich days of idleness, and soul that grewSuddenly certain after doubting years,And won through joy the wisdom lost through tears;O Downs of Sussex, flowing swift and cleanLike stretchèd dogs along the English shore,With cleanliness of athletes, and the leanBrown flanks that course above the hare-belled floor;O winds, that jangle all those little bells,And tangle hair of nymphs in hidden dells;O wandering Road, stranger and instant friend,—For Youth a gipsy ever was at heart,—Highway and packway, path with many a bendThat keep your mystery a thing of art;O pools of friendly water; little lins;O sudden views of country; wayside inns;Labour of harvest; cider sweet and good;Casual friends with tales of travel far;Beauty of women; sunlight through a wood;Companionable beasts; all things which are,Weep for him! weep for Youth that laughed so bright,Extravagantly fallen in the fight.
O redolent things most dear to Youth on earth,Friendship of other men; the hunter’s horn;The strong fatigue of practised limbs; the mirthOf little birds in coppices and corn;Work’s satisfaction; leisure’s bland delight;The grateful sinking into sleep at night;Speed, with the winds of heaven at your heels,And grimy Power, and all you brilliant onesThat leap and sparkle ’mid the din of wheels,A thousand little stars and little suns;And streets of cities threatening the sky;Cranes, wharves, and smoke in billows hanging high;O stately Bridge, the country’s arching frame,A needle’s eye to thread the river through;Free ships, that rove and perish without fame;Rich days of idleness, and soul that grewSuddenly certain after doubting years,And won through joy the wisdom lost through tears;O Downs of Sussex, flowing swift and cleanLike stretchèd dogs along the English shore,With cleanliness of athletes, and the leanBrown flanks that course above the hare-belled floor;O winds, that jangle all those little bells,And tangle hair of nymphs in hidden dells;O wandering Road, stranger and instant friend,—For Youth a gipsy ever was at heart,—Highway and packway, path with many a bendThat keep your mystery a thing of art;O pools of friendly water; little lins;O sudden views of country; wayside inns;Labour of harvest; cider sweet and good;Casual friends with tales of travel far;Beauty of women; sunlight through a wood;Companionable beasts; all things which are,Weep for him! weep for Youth that laughed so bright,Extravagantly fallen in the fight.
O redolent things most dear to Youth on earth,Friendship of other men; the hunter’s horn;The strong fatigue of practised limbs; the mirthOf little birds in coppices and corn;Work’s satisfaction; leisure’s bland delight;The grateful sinking into sleep at night;
Speed, with the winds of heaven at your heels,And grimy Power, and all you brilliant onesThat leap and sparkle ’mid the din of wheels,A thousand little stars and little suns;And streets of cities threatening the sky;Cranes, wharves, and smoke in billows hanging high;
O stately Bridge, the country’s arching frame,A needle’s eye to thread the river through;Free ships, that rove and perish without fame;Rich days of idleness, and soul that grewSuddenly certain after doubting years,And won through joy the wisdom lost through tears;
O Downs of Sussex, flowing swift and cleanLike stretchèd dogs along the English shore,With cleanliness of athletes, and the leanBrown flanks that course above the hare-belled floor;O winds, that jangle all those little bells,And tangle hair of nymphs in hidden dells;
O wandering Road, stranger and instant friend,—For Youth a gipsy ever was at heart,—Highway and packway, path with many a bendThat keep your mystery a thing of art;O pools of friendly water; little lins;O sudden views of country; wayside inns;
Labour of harvest; cider sweet and good;Casual friends with tales of travel far;Beauty of women; sunlight through a wood;Companionable beasts; all things which are,Weep for him! weep for Youth that laughed so bright,Extravagantly fallen in the fight.
POOR soul! a captive in a prison-houseDreaming of pastures, is not more degradedThrough rags and shackles and the insidious louse,And naked splendour of the body faded,Than our uneasy spirit, dimly hauntedBy vision of some state, some wisdom whole;Prophetic down unhoped-for distance; taunted;Dissentient and disquiet guest, the soul.
POOR soul! a captive in a prison-houseDreaming of pastures, is not more degradedThrough rags and shackles and the insidious louse,And naked splendour of the body faded,Than our uneasy spirit, dimly hauntedBy vision of some state, some wisdom whole;Prophetic down unhoped-for distance; taunted;Dissentient and disquiet guest, the soul.
POOR soul! a captive in a prison-houseDreaming of pastures, is not more degradedThrough rags and shackles and the insidious louse,And naked splendour of the body faded,
Than our uneasy spirit, dimly hauntedBy vision of some state, some wisdom whole;Prophetic down unhoped-for distance; taunted;Dissentient and disquiet guest, the soul.
Would I were done with flesh, or flesh with me,—Frailty from frailty seeking prop and stay!—Would that from all such trammels I were free,Hindered no more by quagmires of the clay,Then with an energy controlled and fierceMight I on greater secrets turn, and fightThrough with unswathed and polished weapon; pierceThrough to some wisdom, to some lake of light.A sinewy spirit, muscular and lean,Should be my captain, striding ever onOver harsh mountains where the wind blew keen,Peak after peak, till the last peak was won.Angry I strive, loving the world I hate,Hating the flesh I love; but all in vain.Freed for an hour, then, fall’n from ghostly state,Sink to the clasp of siren foes again.
Would I were done with flesh, or flesh with me,—Frailty from frailty seeking prop and stay!—Would that from all such trammels I were free,Hindered no more by quagmires of the clay,Then with an energy controlled and fierceMight I on greater secrets turn, and fightThrough with unswathed and polished weapon; pierceThrough to some wisdom, to some lake of light.A sinewy spirit, muscular and lean,Should be my captain, striding ever onOver harsh mountains where the wind blew keen,Peak after peak, till the last peak was won.Angry I strive, loving the world I hate,Hating the flesh I love; but all in vain.Freed for an hour, then, fall’n from ghostly state,Sink to the clasp of siren foes again.
Would I were done with flesh, or flesh with me,—Frailty from frailty seeking prop and stay!—Would that from all such trammels I were free,Hindered no more by quagmires of the clay,
Then with an energy controlled and fierceMight I on greater secrets turn, and fightThrough with unswathed and polished weapon; pierceThrough to some wisdom, to some lake of light.
A sinewy spirit, muscular and lean,Should be my captain, striding ever onOver harsh mountains where the wind blew keen,Peak after peak, till the last peak was won.
Angry I strive, loving the world I hate,Hating the flesh I love; but all in vain.Freed for an hour, then, fall’n from ghostly state,Sink to the clasp of siren foes again.