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Read Ebook: The Sunken Garden and Other Poems by De La Mare Walter
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Ebook has 140 lines and 9756 words, and 3 pages
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THE LITTLE SALAMANDER When I go free, 9
THE SUNKEN GARDEN Speak not--whisper not; 10
THE RIDDLERS 'Thou Solitary!' the Blackbird cried, 11
MRS. GRUNDY 'Step very softly, sweet Quiet-foot, 13
THE DARK HOUSE See this house, how dark it is 15
MISTRESS FELL 'Whom seek you here, sweet Mistress Fell?' 16
THE STRANGER In the woods as I did walk, 18
THE FLIGHT How do the days press on, and lay 19
THE REMONSTRANCE I was at peace until you came 20
EYES O Strange Devices that alone divide 22
THE TRYST Why in my heart, O grief, 23
THE OLD MEN Old and alone, sit we, 25
THE FOOL'S SONG Never, no, never, listen too long, 26
THE DREAMER O Thou who giving helm and sword, 27
MOTLEY Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee; 28
TO E. T.: 1917. You sleep too well--too far away, 31
ALEXANDER It was the great Alexander, 32
FOR ALL THE GRIEF For all the grief I have given with words 34
FAREWELL When I lie where shades of darkness 35
CLEAR EYES Clear eyes do dim at last, 36
MUSIC When Music sounds, gone is the earth I know, 37
IN A CHURCHYARD As children bidden to go to bed 38
TWO HOUSES In the strange city of life 39
COLOPHON 40
THE LITTLE SALAMANDER: TO MARGOT
When I go free, I think 'twill be A night of stars and snow, And the wild fires of frost shall light My footsteps as I go; Nobody--nobody will be there With groping touch, or sight, To see me in my bush of hair Dance burning through the night.
THE SUNKEN GARDEN
Speak not--whisper not; Here bloweth thyme and bergamot; Softly on the evening hour, Secret herbs their spices shower, Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh, Lean-stalked, purple lavender; Hides within her bosom, too, All her sorrows, bitter rue.
Breathe not--trespass not; Of this green and darkling spot, Latticed from the moon's beams, Perchance a distant dreamer dreams; Perchance upon its darkening air, The unseen ghosts of children fare, Faintly swinging, sway and sweep, Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep; While, unmoved, to watch and ward, 'Mid its gloom'd and daisied sward, Stands with bowed and dewy head That one little leaden Lad.
THE RIDDLERS
'Thou solitary!' the Blackbird cried, 'I, from the happy Wren, Linnet and Blackcap, Woodlark, Thrush, Perched all upon a sweetbrier bush, Have come at cold of midnight-tide To ask thee, Why and when Grief smote thy heart so thou dost sing In solemn hush of evening, So sorrowfully, lovelorn Thing-- Nay, nay, not sing, but rave, but wail, Most melancholic Nightingale? Do not the dews of darkness steep All pinings of the day in sleep? Why, then, when rocked in starry nest We mutely couch, secure, at rest, Doth thy lone heart delight to make Music for sorrow's sake?'
A Moon was there. So still her beam, It seemed the whole world lay a-dream, Lulled by the watery sea. And from her leafy night-hung nook Upon this stranger soft did look The Nightingale: sighed he:--
''Tis strange, my friend; the Kingfisher But yestermorn conjured me here Out of his green and gold to say Why thou, in splendour of the noon Wearest of colour but golden shoon. And else dost thee array In a most sombre suit of black? "Surely," he sighed, "some load of grief, Past all our thinking--and belief-- Must weigh upon his back!" Do, then, in turn, tell me,--If joy Thy heart as well as voice employ, Why dost thou now, most Sable, shine In plumage woefuller far than mine? Thy silence is a sadder thing Than any dirge I sing!'
Thus then these two small birds, perched there, Breathed a strange riddle both did share Yet neither could expound. And we--who sing but as we can, In the small knowledge of a man-- Have we an answer found? Nay, some are happy whose delight Is hid even from themselves from sight; And some win peace who spend The skill of words to sweeten despair Of finding consolation where Life has but one dark end; Who, in rapt solitude, tell o'er A tale as lovely as forlore Into the midnight air.
MRS. GRUNDY
'High coifed, broad-browed, aged, suave yet grim, A large flat face, eyes keenly dim, Staring at nothing--that's me!--and yet, With a hate one could never, no, never forget....'
'This is my world, my garden, my home, Hither my father bade mother to come And bear me out of the dark into light, And happy I was in her tender sight.
'And then, thou frail flower, she died and went, Forgetting my pitiless banishment, And that Old Woman--an Aunt--she said, Came hither, lodged, fattened, and made her bed.
'Oh yes, thou most blessed, from Monday to Sunday Has lived on me, preyed on me, Mrs. Grundy: Called me, "dear Nephew"; on each of those chairs Has gloated in righteousness, heard my prayers.
'Why didst thou dare the thorns of the grove, Timidest trespasser, huntress of love? Now thou has peeped, and now dost know What kind of creature is thine for foe.
'Not that she'll tear out thy innocent eyes, Poison thy mouth with deviltries. Watch thou, wait thou: soon will begin The guile of a voice: hark!... "Come in, Come in!"'
THE DARK HOUSE
See this house, how dark it is Beneath its vast-boughed trees! Not one trembling leaflet cries To that Watcher in the skies-- 'Remove, remove thy searching gaze, Innocent, of Heaven's ways, Brood not, Moon, so wildly bright, On secrets hidden from sight.'
'Secrets,' sighs the night-wind, 'Vacancy is all I find; Every keyhole I have made Wail a summons, faint and sad, No voice ever answers me, Only vacancy.' 'Once, once ...' the cricket shrills, And far and near the quiet fills With its tiny voice, and then Hush falls again.
Mute shadows creeping slow Mark how the hours go, Every stone is mouldering slow, And the least winds that blow Some minutest atom shake, Some fretting ruin make In roof and walls. How black it is Beneath these thick-boughed trees!
MISTRESS FELL
'Many his like, Mistress Fell?' 'I did not look, so cannot tell. Only this I surely know, When his voice called me, I must go; Touched me his fingers, and my heart Leapt at the sweet pain's smart.'
'Why did he leave you, Mistress Fell?' 'Magic laid its dreary spell.-- Stranger, he was fast asleep; Into his dream I tried to creep; Called his name, soft was my cry: He answered--not one sigh.
'The flower and the thorn are here; Falleth the night-dew, cold and clear; Out of her bower the bird replies, Mocking the dark with ecstasies: See how the earth's green grass doth grow, Praising what sleeps below!
'Thus have they told me. And I come, As flies the wounded wild-bird home. Not tears I give; but all that he Clasped in his arms sweet charity; All that he loved--to him I bring For a close whispering.'
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