NIGHTINGALES IN PROVENCE

(i)Whence come they, small and brown,Miraculous and frail,Like spring’s invisible pollen blownOn the wild southern gale?From whatsoever depth of gold and blue,Far-templed sand and ringèd palms they wing,Falling like dewUpon the land, they bringMusic and spring,With all things homely-sweetExhaled beneath the feetOn stony mountain-trail,Or where green slopes, through tamarisk and pine,Seaward decline—Thyme and the lavender,Where honey-bees make stir,And the green dragon-flies with silver whirrLoot the last rosemaries—The morning-glory, rosy as her name,The poppies’ leaping flameAlong the kindled vines,Down barren banks the vetches spilt like lees,In watery meadows the great celandinesAfloat like elfin moons,In the pale world of dunesA foam of asphodelUpon the sea’s blue swell,And, where the great rocks valley-ward are rolled,The tasselled ilex-bloom fringing dark woods with gold.Shyly the first begin—And the thrilled ear delays,Through a fresh veil of interblossomed maysStraining to winThat soft sequestered note,Where the new throat,In some deep cleft of quietness remote,Its budding bliss essays.Shyly the first begin—But, as the numerous roseFirst to the hedgerow throwsA blossom here and there,As if in hope to winThe unheeding glances of the passer-by,And, never catching his dulled eye,Thinks: “But my tryst is with the Spring!”And suddenly the dusty roadside glowsWith scented glory, crimsoned to its close—So wing by wing,Unheeded and unheard,Bird after bird,They come;And where the woods were dumb,Dumb all the streamsides and unlistening vales,Now glory streams along the evening gales,And all the midday is a murmuring,Now they are come.(ii)I lie among the thyme:The sea is at my feet,And all the air is sweetWith the capricious chimeOf interwoven notesFrom those invisible and varying throats,As though the blossomed trees,The laden breeze,The springs within their caves,And even the sleeping waves,Had all begun to sing.Sweet, sweet, oh heavy-sweetAs tropic bales undoneAt a Queen’s ebon feetIn equatorial sun,Those myriad balmy voicesDrip iterated song,And every tiny tawny throat rejoicesTo mix its separate rapture with the throng.For now the world is theirs,And the captivated airsCarry no other note.As from midsummer’s throat,Strong-pillared, organ-built,Pours their torrential glory.On their own waves they float,And toss from crest to crest their cockle-shell of story—And, as plumed breakers tiltAgainst the plangent beaches,And all the long reticulated reachesHiss with their silver lances,And heave with their deep rustle of retreatAt fall of day—So swells, and so withdraws that tidal layAs spring advances....(iij)I lie among the thyme,The sea is at my feet,And the slow-kindling moon begins to climbTo her bejewelled seat—And now, and now again,Mixed with her silver rain,Listen, a rarer strain,A tenderer fall—And all the night is white and musical,The forests hold their breath, the sky lies stillOn every listening hill,And far far out those straining sails,Even as they dip and turn,One moment backward yearnTo the rich laughter of the nightingales.

(i)

Whence come they, small and brown,Miraculous and frail,Like spring’s invisible pollen blownOn the wild southern gale?From whatsoever depth of gold and blue,Far-templed sand and ringèd palms they wing,Falling like dewUpon the land, they bringMusic and spring,With all things homely-sweetExhaled beneath the feetOn stony mountain-trail,Or where green slopes, through tamarisk and pine,Seaward decline—Thyme and the lavender,Where honey-bees make stir,And the green dragon-flies with silver whirrLoot the last rosemaries—The morning-glory, rosy as her name,The poppies’ leaping flameAlong the kindled vines,Down barren banks the vetches spilt like lees,In watery meadows the great celandinesAfloat like elfin moons,In the pale world of dunesA foam of asphodelUpon the sea’s blue swell,And, where the great rocks valley-ward are rolled,The tasselled ilex-bloom fringing dark woods with gold.

Whence come they, small and brown,

Miraculous and frail,

Like spring’s invisible pollen blown

On the wild southern gale?

From whatsoever depth of gold and blue,

Far-templed sand and ringèd palms they wing,

Falling like dew

Upon the land, they bring

Music and spring,

With all things homely-sweet

Exhaled beneath the feet

On stony mountain-trail,

Or where green slopes, through tamarisk and pine,

Seaward decline—

Thyme and the lavender,

Where honey-bees make stir,

And the green dragon-flies with silver whirr

Loot the last rosemaries—

The morning-glory, rosy as her name,

The poppies’ leaping flame

Along the kindled vines,

Down barren banks the vetches spilt like lees,

In watery meadows the great celandines

Afloat like elfin moons,

In the pale world of dunes

A foam of asphodel

Upon the sea’s blue swell,

And, where the great rocks valley-ward are rolled,

The tasselled ilex-bloom fringing dark woods with gold.

Shyly the first begin—And the thrilled ear delays,Through a fresh veil of interblossomed maysStraining to winThat soft sequestered note,Where the new throat,In some deep cleft of quietness remote,Its budding bliss essays.Shyly the first begin—But, as the numerous roseFirst to the hedgerow throwsA blossom here and there,As if in hope to winThe unheeding glances of the passer-by,And, never catching his dulled eye,Thinks: “But my tryst is with the Spring!”And suddenly the dusty roadside glowsWith scented glory, crimsoned to its close—So wing by wing,Unheeded and unheard,Bird after bird,They come;And where the woods were dumb,Dumb all the streamsides and unlistening vales,Now glory streams along the evening gales,And all the midday is a murmuring,Now they are come.

Shyly the first begin—

And the thrilled ear delays,

Through a fresh veil of interblossomed mays

Straining to win

That soft sequestered note,

Where the new throat,

In some deep cleft of quietness remote,

Its budding bliss essays.

Shyly the first begin—

But, as the numerous rose

First to the hedgerow throws

A blossom here and there,

As if in hope to win

The unheeding glances of the passer-by,

And, never catching his dulled eye,

Thinks: “But my tryst is with the Spring!”

And suddenly the dusty roadside glows

With scented glory, crimsoned to its close—

So wing by wing,

Unheeded and unheard,

Bird after bird,

They come;

And where the woods were dumb,

Dumb all the streamsides and unlistening vales,

Now glory streams along the evening gales,

And all the midday is a murmuring,

Now they are come.

(ii)

I lie among the thyme:The sea is at my feet,And all the air is sweetWith the capricious chimeOf interwoven notesFrom those invisible and varying throats,As though the blossomed trees,The laden breeze,The springs within their caves,And even the sleeping waves,Had all begun to sing.

I lie among the thyme:

The sea is at my feet,

And all the air is sweet

With the capricious chime

Of interwoven notes

From those invisible and varying throats,

As though the blossomed trees,

The laden breeze,

The springs within their caves,

And even the sleeping waves,

Had all begun to sing.

Sweet, sweet, oh heavy-sweetAs tropic bales undoneAt a Queen’s ebon feetIn equatorial sun,Those myriad balmy voicesDrip iterated song,And every tiny tawny throat rejoicesTo mix its separate rapture with the throng.For now the world is theirs,And the captivated airsCarry no other note.As from midsummer’s throat,Strong-pillared, organ-built,Pours their torrential glory.On their own waves they float,And toss from crest to crest their cockle-shell of story—And, as plumed breakers tiltAgainst the plangent beaches,And all the long reticulated reachesHiss with their silver lances,And heave with their deep rustle of retreatAt fall of day—So swells, and so withdraws that tidal layAs spring advances....

Sweet, sweet, oh heavy-sweet

As tropic bales undone

At a Queen’s ebon feet

In equatorial sun,

Those myriad balmy voices

Drip iterated song,

And every tiny tawny throat rejoices

To mix its separate rapture with the throng.

For now the world is theirs,

And the captivated airs

Carry no other note.

As from midsummer’s throat,

Strong-pillared, organ-built,

Pours their torrential glory.

On their own waves they float,

And toss from crest to crest their cockle-shell of story—

And, as plumed breakers tilt

Against the plangent beaches,

And all the long reticulated reaches

Hiss with their silver lances,

And heave with their deep rustle of retreat

At fall of day—

So swells, and so withdraws that tidal lay

As spring advances....

(iij)

I lie among the thyme,The sea is at my feet,And the slow-kindling moon begins to climbTo her bejewelled seat—And now, and now again,Mixed with her silver rain,Listen, a rarer strain,A tenderer fall—And all the night is white and musical,The forests hold their breath, the sky lies stillOn every listening hill,And far far out those straining sails,Even as they dip and turn,One moment backward yearnTo the rich laughter of the nightingales.

I lie among the thyme,

The sea is at my feet,

And the slow-kindling moon begins to climb

To her bejewelled seat—

And now, and now again,

Mixed with her silver rain,

Listen, a rarer strain,

A tenderer fall—

And all the night is white and musical,

The forests hold their breath, the sky lies still

On every listening hill,

And far far out those straining sails,

Even as they dip and turn,

One moment backward yearn

To the rich laughter of the nightingales.

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