Part 11 (1/2)

Come, ye sorrowful, and see The raindrops flaming goldenly On the stream's eddies overhead And dragonflies with drops of red In the crisp surface of each wing Threading slant rains that flash and sing, Or under the water-lily's cup, From darkling depths, roll slowly up The bronze flanks of an ancient bream Into the hot sun's shattered beam, Or over a sunk tree's bubbled bole The perch stream in a golden shoal: Come, ye sorrowful; our deep Holds dreams lovelier than sleep.

But if ye sons of Sorrow come Only wis.h.i.+ng to be numb: Our eyes are sad as bluebell posies, Our b.r.e.a.s.t.s are soft as silken roses, And our hands are tenderer Than the breaths that scarce can stir The sunlit eglantine that is Murmurous with hidden bees.

Come, ye sorrowful, and steep Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep.

Come, ye sorrowful, for here No voices sound but fond and clear Of mouths as lorn as is the rose That under water doth disclose, Amid her crimson petals torn, A heart as golden as the morn; And here are tresses languorous As the weeds wander over us, And brows as holy and as bland As the honey-coloured sand Lying sun-entranced below The lazy water's limpid flow: Come, ye sorrowful, and steep Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep.

Sweet water-voices! now must I _The Faun Unto your sorrowings reply. prepares But hark! or ever there can sound to reply._ On the lull air the first profound Few murmurs of my lyre's grave strings, A voice uprises. Who now sings The noon's and his own tristfulness?

A slim youth--in a shepherd's dress, Yet without sheep--who careless lies Upon the hill. His shepherd guise Tokens, perhaps, a poet's heart Which joys in wandering apart From the dinned ways where chariots roll, From the shrill sophist with his shoal Of gapers, from the angry mart, From the full eyes and empty heart Of babbling women, from the neat Aridity of paven street, A heart that wandering, musing, sings The joy, depth, pain of simple things:

_The Youth._ The earth is still; only the white sun climbs Through the green silence of the branching limes, MIDDAY IN Whose linked flowers hanging from the still tree-top ARCADIA.

Distil their soundless syrup drop by drop, While 'twixt the starry bracket of their lips The black bee drowsing floats and drowsing sips.

The flimsy leaves hang on the bright blue air Calm-suspended. Deep peace is everywhere Filled with the murmurous rumour of high noon.

Earth seems with open eyes to sink and swoon.

In the sky peace: where nothing moves Save the sun that smiles and loves.

A quivering peace is on the gra.s.s.

Through the noon gloam b.u.t.terflies pa.s.s, White and hot blue, only to where They can float flat and dream on the soft air....

The trees are asleep, beautiful, slumbrous trees!

Stirred only by the pa.s.sion of the breeze, That, like a warm wave welling over rocks, Loosens and lifts the ma.s.s of drowsing locks.

Earth, too, under the profound gra.s.s Sleeps and sleeps, and softly heaves her slumbrous ma.s.s.

The earth sleeps. Sleeps the newly-buried clay Or doth divinity trouble it to live alway?

No voice uplifts from under the rapt crust.

The dust cries to the unregarding dust.

Over the hill the stopped notes of twin reeds Speak like drops from an old wound that bleeds: A yokel's pipe an ancient pastoral sings Above the innumerable murmur of hid wings.

I hear the cadence, sorrowful and sweet, The oldest burthen of the earth repeat: All love, all pa.s.sion, all strife, all delight Are but the dreams that haunt earth's visioned night.

In her eternal consciousness the stir Of Alexander is no more to her Than you or I: being all part of dreams, The shadowiest shadow of a thing that seems, The images the lone pipe-player sees, Sitting and playing to the lone, noon breeze.

One note, one life!

They sleep: soon we as these!

XIV

Now plunge I into deepest woods, Where everlastingly there broods Such quiet and glamour as must be Beneath the thres.h.i.+ng upper sea.

Here burns no sun, but tawny light Pervades the vistas still and bright Of mazy boles and fallen leaves....

I press yet on. At length there cleaves The twilit hush a pillared gleam.

The leafed floor rises. 'Tis a beam Of sunlight fallen in a dell Beyond the mound. There will I dwell, Soothed by sunned quietude. For there A carved rock spouts and moists the air With gross-mouthed pour and rising spray....

But hark! what festive cries are they _Of the Which greet me as I top the mound? Satyrs' Feast._ Below, dispersed and sunk around The green and golden of the glen, Lie satyrs; in a leafy den, Silenus, crowned with vines and roses, Drowses and starts, blinks, drinks, and dozes.

Banqueting dishes strew the gra.s.s, Goblets of gold and peac.o.c.k gla.s.s, Flagons, urns, many a br.i.m.m.i.n.g bowl, And horns from which the flushed fruits roll.

High o'er the feast a fronded ash Hangs full of sunlight, and the splash Of the spring's leap or gurgeing flow Into the rippled pool below, Where lilies rock, shakes up a bright Eddy of golden tremulous light Over the leaves. The Oread, In a hooded lynx pelt clad, Smiles where she lolls ... the while twin fauns With stamping hooves and b.u.t.ting horns Join combat for a dripping cup She bears.

But now a shout goes up At sight of me:

_Satyr._ ”We feast, we feast; For, lo! the flaming sun hath ceased _The Invitation._ To climb the curve of arid sky, And his meridian holds on high, Narrowing with his scorching beams The chestnut's shade, exhausting streams, Stilling the woodland singer's note, Piercing the eyes, shrinking the throat, Saddening the heart of man and beast.

Yet grieve not we but sprawl and feast.

Leap down, O Faun, then, from thy rocks, Leap down to us. Bedew thy locks With such cool spicy nards as dwell Within this ribbed and rosy sh.e.l.l; Around thy scalded temples twine Sprays of this fountain-wetted vine, And from this golden jorum sip Nectarous liquor--ay, and lip Smooth nectarines, thy sunk teeth clench In melon dripping sherds, and quench Thy salty thirst anew in flow Of sparkled or dark wines that glow With sober warmth and merriment, Until our gladdened voices blent Awake the vigour of our feet, And up we start the gra.s.s to beat With fervent foot, drink, dance again, And, ever at the loud refrain Clas.h.i.+ng our cups, dance on and on, Till the noontide lull is gone.”

So join I them, and drink and sup, And fill again the great bowl up; And, drenched thus down, spin l.u.s.ty tales Of topping bouts 'twixt men and whales; Of the East's Emperor who hath A pool of wine to be his bath; Of Hercules his thirst, and how He did all Ethiopia plough, And plant with vines, his thirst to sate.

We will discuss the Ideal State, Whose sky is covered by a vine, Whose hills are cheese, whose rivers wine, Whose trees bear loaves brown, crisp and sweet, Whose citizens do nought but eat, But eat and drink, drink, eat, and snore, And eat again, and wish no more Than so to drink, snore, eat; who find In this true liberty of mind And true equality, in this Fraternity, law, earthly bliss.