Chapter 5

FETE GALANTE; THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE

Aristonoe, the fading shepherdess, Gathers the young girls round her in a ring, Teaching them wisdom of love, What to say, how to dress, How frown, how smile, How suitors to their dancing feet to bring, How in mere walking to beguile, What words cunningly said in what a way Will draw man's busy fancy astray, All the alphabet, grammar and syntax of love.

The garden smells are sweet, Daisies spring in the turf under the high-heeled feet, Dense, dark banks of laurel grow Behind the wavering row Of golden, flaxen, black, brown, auburn heads, Behind the light and shimmering dresses Of these unreal, modern shepherdesses; And gaudy flowers in formal patterned beds Vary the dim long vistas of the park, Far as the eye can see, Till at the forest's edge the ground grows dark And the flowers vanish in the obscurity.

The young girls gather round her, Remembering eagerly how their fathers found her Fresh as a spring-like wind in February, Subtler in her moving heart than sun-motes that vary At every waft of an opening and shutting door; They gather chattering near, Hush, break out in laughter, whisper aside, Grow silent more and more, Though she will never chide. Now through the silence sounds her voice still clear, And all give ear. Like a silver thread through the golden afternoon, Equably the voice discloses All that age-old wisdom; like an endless tune Aristonoe's voice wavers among the roses, Level and unimpassioned, Telling them how of nothing love is fashioned, How it is but a movement of the mind, Bidding Celia mark That light skirts fluttering in the wind, Or white flowers stuck in dark Glistening hair, have fired the dull beholder, Or telling Anais That faint indifference ere now hath bred a kiss Denied to flaunted snowy breast or shoulder.

The girls attend, Each thinking on her friend, Whether he be real or imaginary, Whether he be loving or cold; For each ere she grows old Means to pursue her joy, and the whole unwary Troop of their wishes has this wild quarry in cry, That draws them ineluctably, More and more as the summer slippeth by. And Celia leans aside To contemplate her black-silked ankle on the grass; In remote dreaming pride, Rosalind recalls the image in her glass; Phillis through all her body feels How divine energy steals, Quiescent power and resting speed, Stretches her arms out, feels the warm blood run Ready for pursuit, for strife and deed, And turns her glowing face up to the sun. Phillida smiles, And lazily trusts her lazy wit, A slow arrow that hath often hit; Chloe, bemused by many subtle wiles, Grows not more dangerous for all of it, But opens her red lips, yawning drowsily, And shows her small white teeth, Dimpling the round chin beneath, And stretches, moving her young body deliciously.

And still the lesson goes on, For this is an old story that is never done; And now the precept is of ribbon and shoe, What with linens and silks love finds to do, And how man's heart is tangled in a string Or taken in gauze like a weak and helpless thing. Chloe falls asleep; and the long summer day Drifts slowly past the girls and the warm roses, Giving in dreams its hours away. Now Stella throws her head back, and Phillis disposes Her strong brown hands quietly in her lap, And Rose's slender feet grow restless and tap The turf to an imaginary tune. Now all this grace of youthful bodies and faces Is wrought to a glow by the golden weather of June; Now, Love, completing grace of all the graces, Strong in these hearts thy pure streams rise, Transmuting what they learn by heavenly alchemies. Swift from the listeners the spell vanishes, And through the tinkling, empty words, True thoughts of true love press, Flying and wheeling nearer; As through a sunny sky a flock of birds Against the throbbing blue grows clearer and clearer, So closer come these thoughts and dearer.

Helen rises with a laugh; Chloe wakes; All the enchantment scatters off like chaff; The cord is loosened and the spell breaks. Rosalind Resolves that to-night she will be kind to her lover, Unreflecting, warm and kind. Celia tells the lessons over, Counting on her fingers--one and two ... Ribbon and shoe, Skirts, flowers, song, dancing, laughter, eyes ... Through the whole catalogue of formal gallantry And studious coquetries, Counting to herself maliciously.

But the old, the fading shepherdess, Aristonoe, Rises stiffly and walks alone Down the broad path where densely the laurels grow, And over a little lawn, not closely mown, Where wave the flowering grass and the rich meadowsweet. She seems to walk painfully now and slow, And drags a little on her high-heeled feet. She stops at last below An old and twisted plum-tree, whose last petal is gone, Leans on the comfortable, rugged bole, And stares through the green leaves at the drooping sun. The tree and the warm light comfort her ageing soul.

On the other lawn behind her, out of sight, The girls at play Drive out melancholy by lively delight, And the wind carries their songs and laughter away. Some begin dancing and seriously tread A modern measure up and down the grass, Turn, slide with bending knees, and pass With dipping hand and poising head, Float through the sun in pairs, like newly shed And golden leaves astray Upon the warm wind of an autumn day, When the Indian summer rules the air. Others, having found, Lying idly on the sun-hot ground, Shuttlecocks and battledores, Play with the buoyant feathers and stare Dazzled at the plaything as it soars, Vague against the shining sky, Where light yet throbs and confuses the eye, Then see it again, white and clear, As slowly, poisedly it falls by The dark green foliage and floats near. But Celia, apart, is pensive and must sigh, And Anais but faintly pursues the game. An encroaching, inner flame Burns in their hearts with the acrid smoke of unrest; But gaiety runs like quicksilver in Rose's breast, And Phillis, rising, Walks by herself with high and springy tread, All her young blood racing from heels to head, Breeding new desires and a new surprising Strength and determination, Whereof are bred Confidence and joy and exultation.

The long day closes; Rosalind's hour draws near, and Chloe's and Rose's, The hour that Celia has prayed, The hour for which Anais and Stella have stayed, When Helen shall forget her wit, And Phillida by a sure arrow at length be hit, And Phillis, the fleet runner, be at length overtaken; When this bough of young blossoms By the rough, eager gatherers shall be shaken. Their eyes grow dim, Their hearts flutter like taken birds in their bosoms, As the light dies out of heaven, And a faint, delicious tremor runs through every limb, And faster the volatile blood through their veins is driven.

The long day closes; The last light fades in the amber sky; Warm through the warm dusk glow the roses, And a heavier shade drops slowly from the trees, While through the garden as all colours die The scents come livelier on the quickening breeze. The world grows larger, vaguer, dimmer, Over the dark laurels a few faint stars glimmer; The moon, that was a pallid ghost, Hung low on the horizon, faint and lost, Comes up, a full and splendid golden round By black and sharp-cut foliage overcrossed. The girls laugh and whisper now with hardly a sound Till all sound vanishes, dispersed in the night, Like a wisp of cloud that fades in the moon's light, And the garden grows silent and the shadows grow Deeper and blacker below The mysteriously moving and murmuring trees, That stand out darkly against the star-luminous sky; Huge stand the trees, Shadowy, whispering immensities, That rain down quietude and darkness on heart and eye. None move, none speak, none sigh But from the laurels comes a leaping voice Crying in tones that seem not man's nor boy's, But only joy's, And hard behind a loud tumultuous crying, A tangled skein of noise, And the girls see their lovers come, each vying Against the next in glad and confident poise, Or softly moving To the side of the chosen with gentle words and loving Gifts for her pleasure of sweetmeats and jewelled toys.

Dear Love, whose strength no pedantry can stir, Whether in thine iron enemies, Or in thine own strayed follower Bemused with subtleties and sophistries, Now dost thou rule the garden, now The gatherers' hands have grasped the scented bough.

Slow the sweet hours resolve, and one by one are sped. The garden lieth empty. Overhead A nightjar rustles by, wing touching wing, And passes, uttering His hoarse and whirring note. The daylight birds long since are fled, Nor has the moon yet touched the brown bird's throat.

All's quiet, all is silent, all around The day's heat rises gently from the ground, And still the broad moon travels up the sky, Now glancing through the trees and now so high That all the garden through her rays are shed, And from the laurels one can just descry Where in the distance looms enormously The old house, with all its windows black and dead.

SONG

As I lay in the early sun, Stretched in the grass, I thought upon My true love, my dear love, Who has my heart for ever, Who is my happiness when we meet, My sorrow when we sever. She is all fire when I do burn, Gentle when I moody turn, Brave when I am sad and heavy And all laughter when I am merry. And so I lay and dreamed and dreamed, And so the day wheeled on, While all the birds with thoughts like mine Were singing to the sun.

* * * * *

FREDEGOND SHOVE

A DREAM IN EARLY SPRING

Now when I sleep the thrush breaks through my dreams With sharp reminders of the coming day: After his call, one minute I remain Unwaked, and on the darkness which is Me There springs the image of a daffodil, Growing upon a grassy bank alone, And seeming with great joy his bell to fill With drops of golden dew, which on the lawn He shakes again, where they lie bright and chill.

His head is drooped; the shrouded winds that sing Bend him which way they will: never on earth Was there before so beautiful a ghost. Alas! he had a less than flower-birth, And like a ghost indeed must shortly glide From all but the sad cells of memory, Where he will linger, an imprisoned beam, Or fallen shadow of the golden world, Long after this and many another dream.

THE WORLD

I wish this world and its green hills were mine, But it is not; the wandering shepherd star Is not more distant, gazing from afar On the unreaped pastures of the sea, Than I am from the world, the world from me. At night the stars on milky way that shine Seem things one might possess, but this round green Is for the cows that rest, these and the sheep: To them the slopes and pastures offer sleep; My sleep I draw from the far fields of blue, Whence cold winds come and go among the few Bright stars we see and many more unseen.

Birds sing on earth all day among the flowers, Taking no thought of any other thing But their own hearts, for out of them they sing: Their songs are kindred to the blossom heads, Faint as the petals which the blackthorn sheds, And like the earth--not alien songs as ours. To them this greenness and this island peace Are life and death and happiness in one; Nor are they separate from the white sun, Or those warm winds which nightly wash the deep Or starlight in the valleys, or new sleep; And from these things they ask for no release.

But we can never call this world our own, Because we long for it, and yet we know That should the great winds call us, we should go; Should they come calling out across the cold, We should rise up and leave the sheltered fold And follow the great road to the unknown, We should pass by the barns and haystacks brown, Should leave the wild pool and the nightingale; Across the ocean we should set a sail And, coming to the world's pale brim, should fly Out to the very middle of the sky, On past the moon; nor should we once look down.

THE NEW GHOST

'And he, casting away his garment, rose and came to Jesus.'

And he cast it down, down, on the green grass, Over the young crocuses, where the dew was-- He cast the garment of his flesh that was full of death, And like a sword his spirit showed out of the cold sheath.

He went a pace or two, he went to meet his Lord, And, as I said, his spirit looked like a clean sword, And seeing him the naked trees began shivering, And all the birds cried out aloud as it were late spring.

And the Lord came on, He came down, and saw That a soul was waiting there for Him, one without flaw, And they embraced in the churchyard where the robins play, And the daffodils hang down their heads, as they burn away.

The Lord held his head fast, and you could see That he kissed the unsheathed ghost that was gone free-- As a hot sun, on a March day, kisses the cold ground; And the spirit answered, for he knew well that his peace was found.

The spirit trembled, and sprang up at the Lord's word-- As on a wild, April day, springs a small bird-- So the ghost's feet lifting him up, he kissed the Lord's cheek, And for the greatness of their love neither of them could speak.

But the Lord went then, to show him the way, Over the young crocuses, under the green may That was not quite in flower yet--to a far-distant land; And the ghost followed, like a naked cloud holding the sun's hand.

A MAN DREAMS THAT HE IS THE CREATOR

I sat in heaven like the sun Above a storm when winter was: I took the snowflakes one by one And turned their fragile shapes to glass: I washed the rivers blue with rain And made the meadows green again.

I took the birds and touched their springs, Until they sang unearthly joys: They flew about on golden wings And glittered like an angel's toys: I filled the fields with flowers' eyes, As white as stars in Paradise.

And then I looked on man and knew Him still intent on death--still proud; Whereat into a rage I flew And turned my body to a cloud: In the dark shower of my soul The star of earth was swallowed whole.

* * * * *

J. C. SQUIRE

RIVERS

Rivers I have seen which were beautiful, Slow rivers winding in the flat fens, With bands of reeds like thronged green swords Guarding the mirrored sky; And streams down-tumbling from the chalk hills To valleys of meadows and watercress-beds, And bridges whereunder, dark weed-coloured shadows, Trout flit or lie,

I know those rivers that peacefully glide Past old towers and shaven gardens, Where mottled walls rise from the water And mills all streaked with flour; And rivers with wharves and rusty shipping, That flow with a stately tidal motion Towards their destined estuaries Full of the pride of power;

Noble great rivers, Thames and Severn, Tweed with his gateway of many grey arches, Clyde, dying at sunset westward In a sea as red as blood; Rhine and his hills in close procession, Placid Elbe, Seine slaty and swirling, And Isar, son of the Alpine snows, A furious turquoise flood.

All these I have known, and with slow eyes I have walked on their shores and watched them, And softened to their beauty and loved them Wherever my feet have been;

And a hundred others also Whose names long since grew into me, That, dreaming in light or darkness, I have seen, though I have not seen.

Those rivers of thought: cold Ebro, And blue racing Guadiana, Passing white houses, high-balconied That ache in a sun-baked land, Congo, and Nile and Colorado, Niger, Indus, Zambesi, And the Yellow River, and the Oxus, And the river that dies in sand.

What splendours are theirs, what continents, What tribes of men, what basking plains, Forests and lion-hided deserts, Marshes, ravines and falls: All hues and shapes and tempers Wandering they take as they wander From those far springs that endlessly The far sea calls.

O in reverie I know the Volga That turns his back upon Europe, And the two great cities on his banks, Novgorod and Astrakhan; Where the world is a few soft colours, And under the dove-like evening The boatmen chant ancient songs, The tenderest known to man.

And the holy river Ganges, His fretted cities veiled in moonlight, Arches and buttresses silver-shadowy In the high moon, And palms grouped in the moonlight And fanes girdled with cypresses, Their domes of marble softly shining To the high silver moon.

And that aged Brahmapootra Who beyond the white Himalayas Passes many a lamassery On rocks forlorn and frore, A block of gaunt grey stone walls With rows of little barred windows, Where shrivelled young monks in yellow silk Are hidden for evermore....

But O that great river, the Amazon, I have sailed up its gulf with eyelids closed, And the yellow waters tumbled round, And all was rimmed with sky, Till the banks drew in, and the trees' heads, And the lines of green grew higher And I breathed deep, and there above me The forest wall stood high.

Those forest walls of the Amazon Are level under the blazing blue And yield no sound but the whistles and shrieks Of the swarming bright macaws; And under their lowest drooping boughs Mud-banks torpidly bubble, And the water drifts, and logs in the water Drift and twist and pause.

And everywhere, tacitly joining, Float noiseless tributaries, Tall avenues paved with water: And as I silent fly The vegetation like a painted scene, Spars and spikes and monstrous fans And ferns from hairy sheaths up-springing, Evenly passes by.

And stealthier stagnant channels Under low niches of drooping leaves Coil into deep recesses: And there have I entered, there To heavy, hot, dense, dim places Where creepers climb and sweat and climb, And the drip and splash of oozing water Loads the stifling air.

Rotting scrofulous steaming trunks, Great horned emerald beetles crawling, Ants and huge slow butterflies That had strayed and lost the sun; Ah, sick I have swooned as the air thickened To a pallid brown ecliptic glow, And on the forest, fallen with languor, Thunder has begun.

Thunder in the dun dusk, thunder Rolling and battering and cracking, The caverns shudder with a terrible glare Again and again and again, Till the land bows in the darkness, Utterly lost and defenceless, Smitten and blinded and overwhelmed By the crashing rods of rain.

And then in the forests of the Amazon, When the rain has ended, and silence come, What dark luxuriance unfolds From behind the night's drawn bars: The wreathing odours of a thousand trees And the flowers' faint gleaming presences, And over the clearings and the still waters Soft indigo and hanging stars.

* * * * *

O many and many are rivers, And beautiful are all rivers, And lovely is water everywhere That leaps or glides or stays; Yet by starlight, moonlight, or sunlight, Long, long though they look, these wandering eyes, Even on the fairest waters of dream, Never untroubled gaze.

For whatever stream I stand by, And whatever river I dream of, There is something still in the back of my mind From very far away; There is something I saw and see not, A country full of rivers That stirs in my heart and speaks to me More sure, more dear than they.

And always I ask and wonder (Though often I do not know it): Why does this water not smell like water? Where is the moss that grew Wet and dry on the slabs of granite And the round stones in clear brown water? --And a pale film rises before them Of the rivers that first I knew.

Though famous are the rivers of the great world, Though my heart from those alien waters drinks Delight however pure from their loveliness, And awe however deep, Would I wish for a moment the miracle, That those waters should come to Chagford, Or gather and swell in Tavy Cleave Where the stones cling to the steep?

No, even were they Ganges and Amazon In all their great might and majesty, League upon league of wonders, I would lose them all, and more, For a light chiming of small bells, A twisting flash in the granite, The tiny thread of a pixie waterfall That lives by Vixen Tor.

Those rivers in that lost country, They were brown as a clear brown bead is Or red with the earth that rain washed down, Or white with china-clay; And some tossed foaming over boulders, And some curved mild and tranquil, In wooded vales securely set Under the fond warm day.

Okement and Erme and Avon, Exe and his ruffled shallows, I could cry as I think of those rivers That knew my morning dreams; The weir by Tavistock at evening When the circling woods were purple, And the Lowman in spring with the lent-lilies, And the little moorland streams.

For many a hillside streamlet There falls with a broken tinkle, Falling and dying, falling and dying, In little cascades and pools, Where the world is furze and heather And flashing plovers and fixed larks, And an empty sky, whitish blue, That small world rules.

There, there, where the high waste bog-lands And the drooping slopes and the spreading valleys, The orchards and the cattle-sprinkled pastures Those travelling musics fill, There is my lost Abana, And there is my nameless Pharphar That mixed with my heart when I was a boy, And time stood still.

And I say I will go there and die there: But I do not go there, and sometimes I think that the train could not carry me there, And it's possible, maybe, That it's farther than Asia or Africa, Or any voyager's harbour, Farther, farther, beyond recall.... O even in memory!

EPITAPH IN OLD MODE

The leaves fall gently on the grass, And all the willow trees and poplar trees and elder trees That bend above her where she sleeps, O all the willow trees, the willow trees Breathe sighs above her tomb.

O pause and pity as you pass. She loved so tenderly, so quietly, so hopelessly; And sometimes comes one here and weeps-- She loved so tenderly, so tenderly, And never told them whom.

SONNET

There was an Indian, who had known no change, Who strayed content along a sunlit beach Gathering shells. He heard a sudden strange Commingled noise: looked up; and gasped for speech. For in the bay, where nothing was before, Moved on the sea, by magic, huge canoes, With bellying cloths on poles, and not one oar, And fluttering coloured signs and clambering crews.

And he, in fear, this naked man alone, His fallen hands forgetting all their shells, His lips gone pale, knelt low behind a stone, And stared, and saw, and did not understand, Columbus's doom-burdened caravels Slant to the shore, and all their seamen land.

THE BIRDS

Within mankind's duration, so they say, Khephren and Ninus lived but yesterday. Asia had no name till man was old And long had learned the use of iron and gold; And aeons had passed, when the first corn was planted, Since first the use of syllables was granted.

Men were on earth while climates slowly swung, Fanning wide zones to heat and cold, and long Subsidence turned great continents to sea, And seas dried up, dried up interminably, Age after age; enormous seas were dried Amid wastes of land. And the last monsters died.

Earth wore another face. O since that prime Man with how many works has sprinkled time! Hammering, hewing, digging tunnels, roads; Building ships, temples, multiform abodes. How, for his body's appetites, his toils Have conquered all earth's products, all her soils; And in what thousand thousand shapes of art He has tried to find a language for his heart!

Never at rest, never content or tired: Insatiate wanderer, marvellously fired, Most grandly piling and piling into the air Stones that will topple or arch he knows not where.