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Title: The Garden
Author: Sackville-West, Vita [Victoria Mary] (1892-1962)
Author [four-line quotation]:
   Eliot, T. S. [Thomas Stearns] (1888-1965)
Date of first publication: 1946
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Michael Joseph, 1946
Date first posted: 9 June 2014
Date last updated: 9 June 2014
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1184

This ebook was produced by Al Haines






  V. SACKVILLE-WEST


  _The Garden_



  MICHAEL JOSEPH LIMITED
  26 Bloomsbury Street, London, W.C.1




  FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1946


  _Set and printed in Great Britain by Unwin Brothers Ltd.,
  at the Gresham Press, Woking, in Fournier type, twelve
  point, leaded, with decorations by Broom Lynne, on paper
  made by John Dickinson, and bound by James Burn._




CONTENTS


THE GARDEN

WINTER

SPRING

SUMMER

AUTUMN




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Some of the verses incorporated in this poem have already appeared
separately in the following publications: _The Times Literary
Supplement_, the _Spectator_, the _Observer_, the _New Statesman and
Nation_, the _Listener_, _Country Life_.  I should wish to express my
gratitude to their respective editors for printing the verses; and also
to the British Broadcasting Corporation for including some other lines
in their poetry programmes on the air.

My thanks are due also to Mr. T. S. Eliot for permission to quote four
lines from _The Waste Land_ on page 63.

V. S-W.




  _Dedication_

  TO

  KATHERINE DRUMMOND

  How well I know what I mean to do
  When the sweet moist days of Autumn come:
  Clear my garden of wicked weeds
  And write a poem to give to you.

  A long, rank poem of autumn words,
  Looking over the summer and spring.
  My age is autumn, and yours is--what?
  Winter? ah no, that's another thing.

  Yours is the year that counts no season;
  I can never be sure what age you are.
  A girl in her running moods, no reason?
  A woman of wisdom crepuscular?

  Lover of words for their English beauty,
  Lover of friends for their tested bond,
  (Oh faithful tolerant heart, so rare
  In visions of virtue, seen beyond!
  Seen beyond cheapness, seen beyond meanness,
  Meagre estimates not in your score.
  Credit the others, make yourself debtor,
  Lest in the total you might poll more!)

  Lover of woods, of words, of flowers,
  Lover yourself of the things I love,
  Friendship was made of the quiet hours
  Hung between earth and the sky above.

  Flowers and clouds and the last unknown,
  All in your garden or soft deep room
  Where peace obtained and the window showed
  On a twilight gloom that was not gloom.

  You loved me too, as I like to think;
  I felt your love as a benediction
  In tranquil branches above me spread,
  Over my sometimes troubled head,
  A cedar of Lebanon, dark as ink,
  And grave as a valediction.

  You are the wise, the brave, the gentle;
  The rivulets of my many moods
  Flowed unchecked by your quiet chair
  As the freshet flows through the watching woods.

  Ah, could I tell you, ah, could I give you
  Half of the strength you have given to me!
  Half of a garden, half of a poem,
  Then would the rivulet run to the sea.

  But how well I know what I really do
  When St. Martin's golden Summer comes:
  I pull no weed from my garden slums
  And write no poem that's fit for you.

  Hide in the woods instead, and dream
  As the beeches turn to their autumn brown
  And acorns plop in the swollen stream;
  Sit on a rotting log; scrawl down
  Rubbish of verses fit for fire,
  Gardener, poet, on single pyre,
  Liberal, losel, catching the last
  Chance of the mothlike summer past,--
  Winter's ahead, and our days are few.

  Failing as gardener, failing as poet,
  Giving so little to all I love,
  What have I done with my life as I know it,
  A shortening beat on a short patrol?

  How to detect the advance of age,
  The growth of the moss on the hoary soul,
  The loss of the generous early rage,
  The drab of hoping no more from life,
  Which marks the transit from youth to sage?

  What did we ever expect from life?
  Fame? adventure? a tranquil bliss?
  Ah no, it was never those varied things,
  The stocks that soar or the lark that sings;
  It was the ardour that lit the whole,
  Not expectation of that or this.

  Age is the loss of that early zest;
  The onset of age is the flame gone low;
  Signs of the end, of the deathly rest
  Sought in the pianissimo
  By a heart gone weak and a spirit tired
  From the long delusion of things desired.

  That is an age which has laid no touch
  On your silver hair or your laughing eyes;
  Tarnished you not with sardonic smutch,
  For your heart is young though it may be wise,
  And your spirit is still intuitive.

  So take the little I have to give,
  Here in a poem to fill your leisure
  Where every word is lived and true.
  The weeds in my garden remain as green,
  And I cannot tell if I bring you pleasure,
  But the little patch I have cleared for you,
  That one small patch of my soul is clean.




  _The
  Garden_



  Small pleasures must correct great tragedies,
  Therefore of gardens in the midst of war
  I boldly tell.  Once of the noble land
  I dared to pull the organ-stops, the deep
  Notes of the bass, the diapason's range
  Of rich rotation, yielding crop by crop;
  Of season after season as the wheel
  Turned cyclic in the grooves and groves of time;
  I told the classic tools, the plough, the scythe,
  In husbandry's important ritual,
  But now of agriculture's little brother
  I touch the pretty treble, pluck the string,
  Making the necklace of a gardener's year,
  A gardener's job, for better or for worse
  Strung all too easily in beads of verse.
  No strong no ruthless plough-share cutting clods,
  No harrow toothed as the saurian jaws,
  Shall tear or comb my sward of garden theme,
  But smaller spade and hoe and lowly trowel
  And ungloved fingers with their certain touch.

  (Delicate are the tools of gardener's craft,
  Like a fine woman next a ploughboy set,
  But none more delicate than gloveless hand,
  That roaming lover of the potting-shed,
  That lover soft and tentative, that lover
  Desired and seldom found, green-fingered lover
  Who scorned to take a woman to his bed.)
  So to such small occasions am I fallen,
  And in the midst of war,
  (Heroic days, when all the pocket folk
  Were grabbed and shaken by a larger hand
  And lived as they had never lived before
  Upon a plane they could not understand
  And gasping breathed an atmosphere too rare,
  But took it quickly as their native air,
  Such big events
  That from the slowly opening fount of time
  Dripped from the leaky faucet of our days,)
  I tried to hold the courage of my ways
  In that which might endure,
  Daring to find a world in a lost world,
  A little world, a little perfect world,
  With owlet vision in a blinding time,
  And wrote and thought and spoke
  These lines, these modest lines, almost demure,
  What time the corn still stood in sheaves,
  What time the oak
  Renewed the million dapple of her leaves.

  Yet shall the garden with the state of war
  Aptly contrast, a miniature endeavour
  To hold the graces and the courtesies
  Against a horrid wilderness.  The civil
  Ever opposed the rude, as centuries'
  Slow progress laboured forward, then the check,
  Then the slow uphill climb again, the slide
  Back to the pit, the climb out of the pit,
  Advance, relapse, advance, relapse, advance,
  Regular as the measure of a dance;
  So does the gardener in little way
  Maintain the bastion of his opposition
  And by a symbol keep civility;
  So does the brave man strive
  To keep enjoyment in his breast alive
  When all is dark and even in the heart
  Of beauty feeds the pallid worm of death.

  Much toil, much care, much love and many years
  Went to the slow reward; a grudging soil
  Enriched or lightened following its needs:
  Potash and compost, stable-dung, blood, bones,
  Spent hops in jade-green sacks, the auburn leaves
  Rotted and rich, the wood-ash from the hearth
  For sticky clay; all to a second use
  Turned in a natural economy,
  And many a robin perched on many a sod
  Watched double-trenching for his benefit
  Through the companionable russet days,
  But only knew the digger turned the worm
  For him, and had no foresight of the frost
  Later to serve the digger and his clod
  Through winter months, for limitations rule
  Robins and men about their worms and wars,
  The robin's territory; and man's God.

  But the good gardener with eyes on ground
  (Lifted towards the sunset as he scrapes
  His tools at day's end, looks into the west,
  Examining the calm or angry sky
  To reckon next day's chance of fair or ill,
  Of labour or of idleness enforced,)
  Sees only what he sees, oh happy he!
  Makes his small plot his arbiter, his bourn,
  Being too lightly built to suffer pain
  That's unremitting, pain of broken love,
  Or pain of war that tears too red a hole.
  He will endure his trials willy-nilly,
  The plaguy wind, the cold, the drought, the rain,
  All, to his mind, ill-timed and in excess,
  But finds a sanctuary.  He knows, he knows
  The disappointments, the discomfitures,
  The waste, the dash of hopes, the sweet surprise
  Sprung in forgotten corner; knows the loss,
  Attempts defeated, optimism balked;
  He may not pause to lean upon his spade,
  And even in the interruption brought
  By friends, he will not stroll
  At simple ease, but ever dart his eyes
  Noticing faults, and feeling fingers twitch,
  Eager to cut, to tie, correct, promote,
  Sees all shortcomings with the stranger's eye,
  An absent-minded host with inward fret,
  The most dissatisfied of men, whose hope
  Outran achievement and is leading yet.

  (Still there are moments when the shadows fall
  And the low sea of flowers, wave on wave,
  Spreads to the pathway from the rosy wall
  Saying in coloured silence, "Take our all;
  You gave to us, and back to you we gave.

  "You dreamed us, and we made your dream come true.
  We are your vision, here made manifest.
  You sowed us, and obediently we grew,
  But, sowing us, you sowed more than you knew
  And something not ourselves has done the rest.")

  Unlike the husbandman who sets his field
  And knows his reckoned crop will come to birth
  Varying but a little in its yield
  After the necessary months ensealed
  Within the good the generative earth,

  The gardener half artist must depend
  On that slight chance, that touch beyond control
  Which all his paper planning will transcend;
  He knows his means but cannot rule his end;
  He makes the body: who supplies the soul?

  Sometimes, as poet feels his pencil held,
  Sculptor his chisel cutting effortless,
  Painter his brush behind his grasp impelled,
  Unerring guidance, theory excelled,
  When rare Perfection gives a rounded Yes,

  So does some magic in his humbler sphere,
  Some trick of Nature, slant of curious light,
  Some grouped proportion, splendid or severe
  In feast of Summer or the Winter sere,
  Show the designer one thing wholly right.

  Music from notes and poetry from verse
  Grow to a consummation rare, entire,
  When harmony resolves without disperse
  The broken pattern of the universe
  And joins the particles of our desire.

  Hint of the secret synthesis that lies
  So surely round some corner of our road;
  That deepest canon of our faith, the prize
  We look for but shall never realise;
  Suspected cipher that implies a code.

  Rosetta Stone of beauty come by chance
  Into the testing hands of gardener's loves,
  Rich hieroglyphic of significance
  Only denied to our poor ignorance.
  --Those orchards of Rosetta and their doves!

  Should we resolve the puzzle, lose the zest,
  Should we once know our last our full intent,
  If all were staringly made manifest,
  The mystery and the elusive quest,
  Then less than ever should we be content.

  The Morning Glory climbs towards the sun
  As we by nature sadly born to strive
  And our unending race of search to run,
  Forever started, never to be won,
  --And might be disappointed to arrive.




Winter



[Sidenote: _Blackout._]

    _Quiet.  The tick of clock
    Shall bring you peace,
    To your uncertain soul
    Give slow increase._

    _The blackened windows shut
    This inward room
    Where you may be alone
    As in the tomb._

    _A tomb of life not death,
    Life inward, true,
    Where the world vanishes
    And you are you._

    _War brings this seal of peace,
    This queer exclusion,
    This novel solitude,
    This rare illusion,_

    _As to the private heart
    All separate pain
    Brings loss of friendly light
    But deeper, darker gain._

  Not only war, but natural Winter carries
  This valuable and enforced retreat,
  As monks will seek in contemplation's cell
  An increment of quiet holiness,
  Prolonged novena,--so the Winter gives
  A blameless idleness to active hands
  And liberates the vision of the soul.
  Darkness is greater light, to those who see;
  Solitude greater company to those
  Who hear the immaterial voices; those
  Who dare to be alone.

  Yet there are days when courage, hardly pressed,
  Staggers to meet the unaccountable foe
  More dangerous than known danger; days when cold
  Frightens with lack of mercy, days when sleet
  Blinds as an evil and obscuring thing,
  The very enemy of sight and light,
  A force iniquitous, an infamy
  Whose only lust is ruin; days when murk
  Darkens before the clock's expected hour
  And blows the little taper of our cheer;
  Days when the wind, which once was summer breeze,
  Rips through the canvas of the air, with fangs
  Savaging the poor shelter of our house;
  Days when our gentle and habitual friends
  The trees, the roads, take part in enmity,
  Trees twisting roots that in the summer held
  The reading schoolboy in their hammock slung
  Over the stream, but now like pythons wreathe
  Waiting to rack new sons of Laocoon;
  When lanes that led us to the lighted pane
  Now in their frozen malice make us fall;
  When the mild hills that big as guardians stood
  Watching our valley, take another shape
  Or hide themselves entire, so we, not seeing
  But knowing only that they still are there,
  Wonder what transformation huge and bad
  Corrupts them in their cloud, and in our awe
  Cower, and push our fearful thought away.

  It is not Winter, not the cold we fear;
  It is the dreadful echo of our void,
  The malice all around us, manifest;
  Loud-mouthed interpreter of constant whispers
  Mostly ignored, or drowned within the song
  Of cheerfulness and shallow disregard.
  The athletic spirit, like a shouting boy,
  Leaps to all reassurance, shuns the dour
  Disquiet plucking mutely at his sleeve,
  And seeks the climate native to his mind
  Where day suffices day, but even he
  When lowering Nature grips, must vacillate
  Disconsolate before the frightful day
  With a strange wonder and a strange alarm.

  No natural dread, no dread of age or death,
  --Tractable phantoms do they both appear--
  But an unmanageable intimation
  Arousing with an apprehended call
  That rabble in the basement of our being,
  Ragged and gaunt, that seldom rush to light
  But in a cellar with the scurrying rats
  Live out their bleached existence till the cry
  Whistles them up the stairs, the curs, the beggars,
  And sets them running in a pack released
  To chase the frightened rabbit of the soul.

  Not always thus, for the resilient heart
  Thankfully lifts, the richer for that hour.
  Let but one gleam and promise of the sun
  Redly dissolve the mist, unfreeze the lane
  And put some colour back where there was none,
  Then in our pathos do we lift our eyes
  And tread with confidence our usual path
  Fearing no treachery; then we behold
  Beauty return with colour and with shape,
  (As beauty, for completeness, must observe.)

  Then will the fine-drawn branches of the Winter
  Stretch fingers of a lean but generous hand
  Against a morning sky of cloud where mingle
  Doves and flamingoes, over pented roofs
  Of clustered homestead with its barns and lichen
  Green in the rain but golden in the sun;
  The great red threshing engine standing ready
  Out in the stack-yard, and the green tarpaulin
  Tossed as a tent above the waiting ricks,
  So viridescent, it repeats the lichen;
  The cottages repeating all the apples
  That ever hung with cheeks towards the sun.

  Quiet you down, you troubled soul; lie down
  As patient dog when bidden, in a corner;
  Forget those days when you could not control
  Something that rose unbidden and unknown.
  Seize on your comfort when you may; resume
  The little things that match your little scheme,
  And, as you travel on your country road
  And see the bonfire blazing from the brish
  To match the sunrise scarlet in the sky
  With smoke as full and blue as plumes of swan,
  (Since white is blue in shadow), leave your fear,
  Let the brief terror go, and turn again
  To the more comfortable daily rule.

    _... As once in childhood, when the creep of dusk
    Peopled the hedges with a breed of shapes,
    And pollard willows turned to knarly apes,
    The hollies to a host of men in capes,
    And whitened birch-pole to a sharpened tusk,_

    _The stump of chestnut to a manikin,
    The tufted elm to an advancing bear,
    The very ditch to some unseemly lair,
    --Then, when a lighted window showed its square,
    A sudden token of the peace within,_

    _The room we knew, security entire,
    Leapt as a picture, self-contained, complete,
    A sanctuary to our running feet,
    A box of walls, a rational retreat,
    But most of all the warm, the fendered fire,_

    _The fire our friend, that symbol since the cave,
    Which on a wintry morning, still half-dark,
    In roadside fireside when our days are stark
    But bonfire brishings of the hedges spark,
    Touches our childish heart, and makes us brave._

  Winter.  What's Winter?  Is it cowardly
  To draw the curtain on the misery
  Of outward day? shut out the tears of rain
  And wind-dishevelled ancient hair of trees
  And soaked garden seen through window-pane?
  Oh no! for here a different pleasure offers;
  Here may we dream of different beauty seen,
  Desired though not fulfilled, that final beauty
  Denied to all our scheming as we know
  Too well, yet still delude ourselves in vision
  Unreasonable, in pathetic faith
  As the advancing soul, abashed, disheartened,
  Loses itself in night to reach a day
  Resplendent after darkness,--so in Winter
  The gardener sees what he will never see.

  Here, in his lamp-lit parable, he'll scan
  Catalogues bright with colour and with hope,
  Dearest delusions of creative mind,
  His lamp-lit walls, his lamp-lit table painting
  Fabulous flowers flung as he desires.
  Fantastic, tossed, and all from shilling packet
  --An acre sprung from one expended coin,--
  Visions of what might be.
                           We dream our dreams.
  What should we be, without our fabulous flowers?
  The gardener dreams his special own alloy
  Of possible and the impossible.

  He dreams an orchard neatly pruned and spurred,
  Where Cox' Orange jewels with the red
  Of Worcester Permain, and the grass beneath
  Blows with narcissus and the motley crocus,
  Rich as Crivelli, fresh as Angelo
  Poliziano, or our English Chaucer
  Or Joachim du Bellay, turn by turn.
  He dreams again, extravagant, excessive,
  Of planted acres most unorthodox
  Where Scarlet Oaks would flush our English fields
  With passionate colour as the Autumn came,
  _Quercus coccinea_, that torch of flame
  Blown sideways as by some Atlantic squall
  Between its native north America
  And this our moderate island.  Or again
  He dreams of forests made of flow'ring trees
  Acre on acre, thousands in their pride,
  Cherry and almond, crab and peach and plum,
  Not like their working cousins grown for use
  But in an arrant spendthrift swagger cloak
  Squandered across th' astonished countryside.

  What woodlands here!  No beech, no sycamore,
  No rutted chestnut, no, nor wealden oak,
  Trunks rising straight from sun-shot, shade-flecked ground,
  Elephants' legs, set gray and solid-round,
  No green-brown distance of the mossy ride,
  But tossing surf of blossom, frothy heads,
  Lather of rose, of cream, of ice-green white,
  Vapour and spindrift blown upon the air,
  Scudding down rides and avenues more fair
  Even than usual woodlands in the Spring
  Or at the Summer's height;
  (That's saying much, God knows; though saying only
  A truth to him who through the woodland goes
  Rapt, but aware; alone yet never lonely;
  And all the changes of their movement knows.)

  Oh these imagined woods in a clear treble
  Pure as a boy's voice, purer than a woman's,
  With coral deepening those high, light notes
  Of white and pink and rose and palest yellow:
  They are more lovely than known loveliness,
  They are the consummation of a vision
  Seen by rare travellers on Tibetan hills
  --Bitter escarpments cut by knives of wind,
  Eaves of the world, the frightful lonely mountains,--
  Or in Yunnan and Sikkim and Nepal
  Or Andes ranges, over all this globe
  Giant in travelled detail, dwarf on maps;
  Forrest and Farrer, Fortune, Kingdon-Ward,
  Men that adventured in the lost old valleys,
  Difficult, dangerous, or up the heights,
  Tired and fevered, blistered, hungry, thin,
  But drunk enough to set a house on fire
  When the last moment of their worthless quest
  Startled them with reward, a flash as sudden
  As the king-fisher's blue on English stream.

  (They say, such travellers were suspect there
  Where none would come for other quest than gold
  Or trade, that other token form of gold.
  Gold may mean different things to different men.
  To one man, it could mean the Golden Bell,
  _Forsythia suspensa_, hanging yellow
  Along bare branches, such a natural gold
  Paying no dividend, as in our cold
  Dark February, alien golden bells
  Deepen our pale young sunlight, gild our frost,
  Since that lone raider rang his useless bells of gold.)

  And this, in these invented woods, may take
  The place of underwood, replace the tall
  Thirteen-year chestnut, fit for poles and spiles;
  Here is romance, in this imagined forest,
  These different rides of laylock and Forsythia;
  Azalea in a peaty soil; magnolia
  Cupping its goblets down the narrow aisles;
  Vines and solanum wreathing Silver Birches,
  Wild waving overhead, to lift the eyes
  Surfeited with the wealth on lower level.

  Think, and imagine: this might be your truth;
  Follow my steps, oh gardener, down these woods.
  Luxuriate in this my startling jungle.
  I dream, this winter eve.  A millionaire
  Could plant these forests of a poet's dream.
  A poet's dream costs nothing; yet is real.

  The gardener sits in lamplight, soberer
  Than I who mix such lyrical and wild
  Impossibilities with what a sober man
  Considers sense.  Yet I, poor poet, I
  Am likewise a poor practised gardener
  Knowing the Yes and better still the No.
  Sense must prevail, nor waste extravagant
  Such drunken verse on such December dreams.

  Yet I do find it difficult indeed
  To break away from visions in this drear
  Winter of northern island.  I must love
  The warmer sun and with nostalgia pine
  For those my birthright climates on the coast
  Mediterranean of southern Spain.

  Homesick we are, and always, for another
  And different world.
                       And so the traveller
  Down the long avenue of memory
  Sees in perfection that was never theirs
  Gardens he knew, and takes his steps of thought
  Down paths that, half-imagined and half-real,
  Are wholly lovely with a loveliness
  Suffering neither fault, neglect, nor flaw;
  By visible hands not tended, but by angels
  Or by St. Phocas, gentlest patron saint
  Of gardeners....  Such wisdom of perfection
  Never was ours in fact though ours in faith,
  And since we live in fabric of delusion
  Faith may well serve a turn in place of fact.

  Luxury of escape!  In thought he wanders
  Down paths now more than paths, down paths once seen.
  Gold is their gravel, not the gold that paves
  Ambition's highway; velvet is their green;
  Blue is the water of the tide that laves
  Their island shore where terraces step steep
  Down to the unimaginable coves
  Where wash on silver sand the secret seas.
  Above such coves, such seas, he strays between
  Straight cypresses or rounded orange-trees,
  And sees a peasant draw a pail from deep
  Centennial well; and finds a wealth in these.

  Across the landscape of his memory
  Bells ring from distant steeples, no cracked bell
  Marring the harmony, but all as pure
  As that spring-water drawn from that clear well.
  What time the English loam is bare and brown
  Elsewhere he roams and lets his reason drown
  In thought of beauty seen.  There was a key
  Opened an iron door within the wall
  Of the thick ramparts of a fortress town
  Where the great mountains sudden and remote
  Like clouds at tether rose,
  But the near larkspur seemed as tall
  Dashing her spire of azure on their snows;
  And, wandering, he might recall
  Another garden, seen as in a moat
  Reflected, green, and white with swans afloat,
  Shut in a wood where, mirrored sorrowful,
  A marble Muse upon her tablets wrote.

  Look, where he strays!
  Images, like those slow and curving swans,
  Sail sensuous up, and these drab northern days,
  This isle of mist, this sun a shield of bronze,
  Melt in the intenser light away.

  Or, as his vision grows particular
  In focus of his lamplight, he may see
  Detail of gardens in his little lens,
  Bright in their miniature.
  Gardens of Persia, where the thin canal
  Runs in transparency on turquoise tiles
  Down to the lost pavilion, broken, spoilt,
  Decaying as the peach and almond wake
  Beneath the snow-white mountains when the Spring
  Melts snow, and water and the blossom break.

  Or he may see the great Escorial,
  Barrack fanatical, and smell the box
  Hot in the August sun; or pace the strait
  Paths of the Generalif, oddly hitched
  To scarps where all the nightingales of Spain
  Sing to the moon, or in some dark Italian
  Garden find symphonies of leaves and water:
  The ilex, and the fountain, and the cool
  Nymph dipping marble foot in living pool.

  Gardens of the ideal, the sole Kingdom;
  All his, attained, possessed, held beyond loss.
  Take a prince prisoner and make him yours!
  Princely he roves, but with a soft nostalgia
  Sweetening half the pain that it embalms,
  --As some young simple soldier, far from home,
  Goes walks down cottage paths, and speaks no word
  Of flowers he perceived or birds he heard,
  But holds that corner of his exiled heart
  Private for that rare pious pilgrimage
  When he with his true self may live apart.

  Thus do I love my England, though I roam.
  Thus do I love my England: I am hers.
  What could be said more simply?  As a lover
  Says of his mistress, I am hers, she mine,
  So do I say of England: I do love her.
  She is my shape; her shape my very shape.
  Her present is my grief; her past, my past.
  Often I rage, resent her moderate cast,
  Yet she is mine, I hers, without escape.
  The cord of birth annexes me for ever.
  And so when long and idle winter dusk
  Forces me into lamplight, I must make
  Impracticable beauty for my England.

  Ah dreams, impracticable dreams!  What dreams
  Lie buried in that box all gardeners know,
  Labels that once belonged to living plants
  But now like little tombstones set aside
  Rest on a shelf, nor wait another morn.
  They're dead; we could not grow them; they are dead;
  Dead as a finished love that will not throw
  Fresh shoots again beyond that fine first burst
  Of love or spring of year.
                             Small cemetery,
  These labels were our hopes; we saw them grow
  Into a loveliness we cannot know.
  The catalogues misled us, as a poem
  Misleads us, or the promises of love;
  We heard their music, and as chords they go.

  Box of the Dead, these labels sadly pulled
  From base of shrivelled plants, yet set aside
  For that bright day when death may be replaced
  By youngling surging on another tide.

  Book of the Dead, that private catalogue
  Of hope defeated, list of hope and droop.
  Oh what a book is that! a year-by-year
  Order from nurserymen, expensive, modest;
  The cost meant nothing where the love meant all.

  Modest we are in hope, and in defeat
  Docile and sad, but still renewed in hope.
  What lovely names in that Dead Book survive,
  Names that might be the names of those we loved, and died;
  Forever dead, and never could revive.

  Winter must be the season that induces
  Such melancholy, and the heart seduces
  Towards a feast of pleasure and of pain;
  And I remember once a stranger said,
  Trudging about my garden when the snow
  Had laid a thin and ugly film, "I know
  You think your garden shameful now, and wilt
  As this intruder witnesses your guilt,
  But I like winter best, for in the plain
  Ground where the shortened stalks look dead
  I read the labels with a greater ease,
  And with the eye of faith
  See better life than any life, for these
  Who have the look of death."

  Oh delicate heart!  I never knew your name.

  Truth is not wholly truth, that only truth observes.
  There is a finer truth that sometimes swerves,
  And like reflections in a bandy mirror
  Astonishes through very twist of error.

    _Beauty's not always in a scarlet robe.
    She wears an old black shawl;
    She flouts the flesh and shows the bone
    When winter trees are tall.
    More beautiful than fact may be
    The shadow on the wall._

    _Beauty's not always prinked in all her vaunts
    It pleases her to speak
    In basic whisper to an ear
    That will not find her bleak;
    The hearing ear, the seeing eye
    Who catch her signs oblique._

    _Oh, fairer than young harlot Summer proud
    This subtle, crooked, wise
    Old Winter croaks a different truth
    Scorning the sensuous lies;
    Etches the finer skeleton
    For more perceptive eyes._

  The moody seasons with their lift and fall!
  A light comes through the mist, and all
  Is painted by the great brush of the sun.
  He goes behind a cloud, and all is dun.

  Strange, yet not passing strange, that our poor mood
  (Too finely balanced for a world too crude)
  Should suffer shade and sunlight as a wood
  Now lit in shafts, now light-less, flat, and stale.

  Our mood is Nature's, and ourselves too frail.

  Gardener, dwell not long on Book of Dead,
  Nor yet on desperate mood beneath the lamp;
  Think, rather, of the triumph when you said
  "I drained this sodden bed and saved from damp."
  These were the long laborious tasks you did;
  These are the practical, the small
  Pert boasting Jacks against the Giants tall
  Of winter trees, as bony and as harsh
  As knuckled willows lining Romney Marsh.

  But frost will come, and if you well prepare
  Your trenching, never taken unaware
  By that strange metalled grip
  That steals the vigil of your guardianship
  And does the second half of work begun
  And changes every aspect while the sun
  Founders incarnadine, to reappear
  Paler with morning, on an earth forlorn
  But magical with mystery of mist
  When frozen cobwebs hang from frozen thorn
  Stiff in their frailty,--then you may rejoice
  That at the cost of aching spine and wrist
  You took November foresight as your choice
  And laid your garden ready as a feast
  For frost to finger, and through clods to run.

  Frost!  Use as friend; forestall as enemy.
  A gardener's scrap of wisdom, simply learnt.
  Rash maiden growth may be as truly burnt
  By chill as fire, to dangle limp and lame.
  Young leaves hang seared by frost as though by flame;
  See the young tender chestnut in the wood
  As though a Goth with torch had passed that way
  When the three ice-saints hold their sway
  In middle-May:
  Saint Boniface, Saint Servais, and the boy
  Saint Pancras, martyred long before he came
  To manhood, with his fame
  Still known to Canterbury in his church,
  With legendary power to destroy
  Orchards of Kent that wither at his name
  At coming of his feast-day with the smirch
  Of blossom browned and future apples trim
  Lost at the touch of his aberrant whim.

  Therefore, lest this inclement friend should maim
  Your valued plants, plunge pots within a frame
  Sunk deep in sand or ashes to the rim,
  Warm nursery when nights and days are grim;
  But in the long brown borders where the frost
  May hold its mischievous and midnight play
  And all your winnings of the months be lost
  In one short gamble when the dice are tossed
  Finally and forever in few hours,
  --The chance your skill, the stake your flowers,--
  Throw bracken, never sodden, light and tough
  In almost weightless armfuls down, to rest
  Buoyant on tender and frost-fearing plants;
  Or set the wattled hurdle in a square
  Protective, where the north-east wind is gruff,
  As sensitive natures seek for comfort lest
  Th' assault of life be more than they can bear,
  And find an end, not in timidity
  But death's decisive certainty.

  And think on present task for open days.
  November sees your digging, rough and brown,
  For frost, that natural harrow,
  To break your furrows down;
  Your spade-wide spits, laborious turned by hand,
  So trivial and narrow,
  Not as the great plough tears the tolerant land,
  --An acre while you dig your hundred-yard.
  Yes, you may hear, across your tidy hedge
  A more majestic tillage, quickly-scarred
  Arable, turned by coulter ridge on ridge,
  Either by heavy horses or by strong
  Tractor with driver on the saddle jarred,
  Looking across his shoulder at the long
  Wake of the furrow, ever on his guard
  To swerve no crooked slip;
  So as a straightly-navigated ship
  Cutting a paler wake with wedge of prow
  Leaves port and makes her landfall and her berth
  Against a harbour half-across the Earth,
  --Miraculous aiming,--goes the steady plough
  From heading down to heading, while you stand
  Poor gardener, resting on your spade; your hand
  Stretching its fingers as a prisoned bird
  Flaps wings upon release, by freedom stirred.

  Envious you may watch; and after dark
  When lassitude has counselled you to bed
  The day's work done, (as much as any man
  Can do with his small tools and his small strength,
  Yet, with all effort, what a little span!)
  Then you may hear while winter foxes bark
  The sound of tractor travelling the length
  Steadily up and down, with beam of light
  Straight-streaming as a furrow down the night,
  Alive with mist-motes, such a stream, a beam
  Hitting the opposite hedgerow with a gleam
  As sudden as a shot when startled hare
  Leaps from the stubble ... But the brightest light
  Is silent; and you, gardener, can hear
  Only the travelling patient sound, so near
  Your garden, (as a lover might reprove
  For laxity and laggardness in love,)
  Since field and garden, plough and spade, must share,
  Different in degree but same in character.

  Dead season, when you only can prepare
  Doggedly for the future, with no hint
  Of bright reward, save in your spirit faint
  That still believes prophetic in return
  Where the Spring sparkles and the Summers burn;
  Quittance of labour, rich in recompense,
  Your dividend on capital expense,
  The interest you had the right to earn
  With golden pounds in place of copper pence
  Wrested from Winter's brown by Summer's gold.

  Dead season, when you knew the world was old
  And you yourself far older, and more cold;
  A long, unlit, and lamentable plaint.

  Then may you turn for comfort to the wall
  Where hangs the Dutchman's canvas, mad and bold,
  Fervid with fantasy, insensate brawl
  Of all your hopes together bunched in paint:

    _Darkest December, when the flowers fail
    And empty tables lack their lucent lading,
    And far beyond the window's rainy veil
    The landscape stretches into twilight fading
    And all seems misted, moribund and pale,
    The past too far away for recollection,
    The present vacuous, forlorn and stale,
    The future far for hope of resurrection,
    --Look, then, upon this feast, your eyes regale
    On this impossible tumble tossed together,
    This freak of Flora's fancy, this all-hail
    Regardless of the calendar or weather.
    Here is the daffodil, the iris frail,
    The peony as blowsy as a strumpet,
    The fringd pink, a summer's draggle-tail,
    The gentian funnelled as a tiny trumpet.
    Here is the hundred-petalled rose, the hale
    Straight streakd tulip curving like a chalice,
    The lily gallant as a ship in sail,
    The sinister fritillary of malice,
    With pretty nest of thrush or nightingale,
    Peaches and grapes cast careless in profusion
    That ev'n in paint their warmed scent exhale
    And ripen the extravagant illusion,
    All towzled in a crazy fairy-tale
    That never blew together in one season
    Save where romances over sense prevail,
    Yet even here behold the hint of treason:
    The small, the exquisite, the brindled snail
    Creeping with horny threat towards the foison,
    Leaving a glistening, an opal trail,
    A smear of evil, signature of poison...._

  Yet think not you must be of hope bereft
  Even when our steep North has rolled
  From the life-giving, colour-giving sun
  In interval of darkness and of cold,
  In loitering length of northern latitude.

  Still may you with your frozen fingers cut
  Treasures of Winter, if you planted well;
  The Winter-sweet against a sheltering wall,
  Waxen, Chinese, and drooping bell;
  Strange in its colour, almond in its smell;
  And the Witch-hazel, _Hamamelis mollis_,
  That comes before its leaf on naked bough,
  Torn ribbons frayed, of yellow and maroon,
  And sharp of scent in frosty English air.

  (Why should they be so scented when no insect,
  No amorous bee, no evening flitter-moth
  Seeks their alluring?  Strange, this useless scent!
  Shall it charm man alone? an Englishman
  Remote from China and her different climate?)

  Gardener, if you listen, listen well:
  Plant for your winter pleasure, when the months
  Dishearten; plant to find a fragile note
  Touched from the brittle violin of frost.
  _Viburnum fragrans_, patient in neglect,
  That Farrer sent from China;
  Patient, and quiet, till, the moment come
  When rime all hoar through mist beneath the sun
  Turns twigs to little antlers and the grass
  To Cinderella's slipper made of glass,--
  She breaks, that pale, that fragrant Guelder-rose
  As a Court beauty lit at a Court-ball
  Sparkled with chandeliers, in muslin youth
  Filmy and delicate, yet old as China,
  Mobled in roseate surprise
  That in December hints at apple-blossom.

  She shares that paradox of quality
  Of blooms that dare the harsh extremity
  Of Winter,--a defiance, it may seem,
  Challenge of a fragility extreme
  In answer to the fiercest enemy.
  Consider: all these winter blooms that grace
  Astonishing our dismal winter air,
  Are delicate as spirits that oppose
  Cynical argument with faith more rare
  But not, thereby, less true.
  Consider the Algerian iris, frail
  As tissue-paper stained in lilac-blue,
  Sprung at the foot of wall; consider too
  _Crocus Tomasianus_, small, so pale,
  Lavender cups of tiny crockery;
  The winter aconite with mint of gold
  Like new-struck coins that shame the spectral sun
  Hung in our jaundiced heaven,--these are frail,
  So frail it seems they scarcely could endure
  One touch of horrid life and life's fierce wind.

  But Winter holds a gem within its folds,
  The brightest diamond in the darkest mine,
  Christmas!  Yet some will say it also holds
  Another jewel in the shortest day.
  Oh then we look for lengthening; we look
  (Knowing full well that mornings are as dark,)
  For that blest moment when, surprised, we say
  "It still is light!" and take our torchless way.
  Was it the Feast of the Unconquered Sun,
  The Roman feast, that fixed the birth of Christ?
  The winter solstice welded into one
  With the soul's solstice, when we stand and stare
  As the sun pauses to regain his height?
  This would be suitable: the darkest hour
  Slowly revolving to the growing light
  As that strange lovely legend entered first
  On one small province of expectant world.
  Messiah! ... With the sun He kept a tryst.
  The very sun, that ruler of our joy,
  Obeyed the mystic birthday, and in power
  Grew with the limbs of Mary's little boy.

  These may be fancies; none can know or tell
  Why in December rings the village bell;
  None knows when Christ was born, or sacrificed,
  Nor by what Easter was emparadised.
  Small matter, at what time the thought of love
  Came timeless here to dwell.

    _It was right, it was suitable,
    That all should be
    Of the utmost simplicity._

    _Stable and star...
    These deeply are
    The things we know.
    The raftered barn and the usual sky;
    England or Palestine, both the same
    But for the name;
    And the child's first cry._

    _Jesus a baby; the gentle cow
    Looking on, ready to give
    Her milk if the Virgin's milk should fail.
    As then, as now.
    Ready to give, that Messiah should live,
    Milk for St. Joseph to squirt in the pail._

    _Truths surrounding Him at His birth
    When He first drew breath;
    Such plain and pastoral truths of the barn and the earth.
    They stood for the cycle of life, though His end was death,
    As the end of us all is death._

    _And their nostrils gently blew,
    Smoking on winter air;
    --Nostrils of velvet, udders of silk.
    Looking over the wall
    That divided stall from stall,
    They blew soft scent of pasture and herbs and milk
    At the child, as at one of their calves.
    No incense, or myrrh._

    _Great St. Peter and great St. Paul
    Travelled far from the stable stall.
    Cathedrals, cardinals, all the state,
    All the dogma and all the weight,
    All the structure of Church and creed,
    When Christ in His greater simplicity
    Had already given us all we need._

    _It was right, it was suitable,
    That all should be
    Of the utmost simplicity
    At that Nativity._

  And yet, and yet ... are we not insular,
  Relating the familiar to the strange?

  I think that Christ was laid in a stone manger,
  Not in a manger of warm wood.
  It is our English thought that builds of wood
  That cosier cot in Palestinian stable;
  Our English thought that turns a warm brown barn
  Such as we know, into that nursery.

  I saw those stone, severe, and Roman mangers
  In Timgad, where the Roman horses ate;
  And suddenly perceived the likely fact.

  Perhaps a little scatter of old straw
  Softened that dour, that first prophetic bed;
  But stone was His beginning, stone His end.

  Pattern of life: the cradle scooped in stone,
  That slab of stone at life's end, lying heavy.
  Not heavy enough, oh men, oh Roman sentries!
  Volatile spirit shifts your lid of stone.

  The cradle and the tomb; and in between them
  Anguish, and strife, and faith beyond despair.
  A resurrection ... then the pattern wheels
  Full cycle back, to find a final limit:
  A tomb within the stonier hearts of men.

    _It snows.  How large and soft and slow
    The floating flakes that hover down
    To find a world of green and brown
    And turn it to a world of snow._

    _In slothful squadrons they alight
    That seem to loiter on the way
    But still resistless steal the day
    And change it to a blaze of white_

    _And blind the night, and with the dawn
    Surprise the looker with the change
    That turned his world to something strange
    The while he slept with curtains drawn._

    _And still they fall, and still they fall,
    A curtain drawn across the skies,
    A curtain blinding to the eyes,
    That shrouds and shawls a world in pall._

    _And still they fall, the drifting flakes,
    As they would never cease in flight
    Inexorably soft and slight
    Vanquishing all but streams and lakes,_

    _Until the moment comes when those
    Are levelled to a frozen plain
    That checks the water's moving vein
    And only snow reflects the rose_

    _Of sunrise when no man is by
    To see the flush, or at the brink
    The thwarted sheep come down to drink,
    The disappointed heron fly._

  Now for your pleasure and their humble need,
  --A double benefit, since you, proud man,
  Enjoy the flattery of giving dole
  And they, who neither proud nor beggars meek
  Will unoffended with imperious beak
  Tap in reminder on your window pane
  When you, forgetful, richly break your fast
  In genial room where hearth and lamplight cast
  Their glow on walls though outer world be bleak,--
  Set up a table on a solid pole
  Outside your window for the ruffled birds.

  You may watch them, they you, and who shall say
  What thoughts may pass between the minds of each?

  But you're superior: you fill a bowl
  In careless largess, you the millionaire,
  Your pence of crumbs their gold of very life.
  Morsels of wealth for morsels of the air.

  Yet think not, as you think yourself a lord
  Dispensing vail from easy charity,
  That you must go without your earned reward.
  They, honest debtors, will acquit their score
  And you shall not be left the creditor.
  Think on the song they gave you, and will give
  When the fawn-breasted chaffinch sits once more
  On twig-tip perilously perched and singing
  Spenser's Epithalamion, and ringing
  All bells that ever rang round Easter....  Give,
  As they will give, who only ask to live.

  Meanwhile in many dreary months before
  That piercing, pure, ineffable sweet note
  Startles you on a morning when your need
  For resurrection is most urgent, then
  When spring calls loud, and sap begins to rise
  Up through the trunks of trees and trunks of men,--
  Throughout the silent months the silent birds
  May bring a pleasure to your watching eyes,
  A private, simple pleasure, not for words.
  Observe, how dangling blue-tits peck the seed
  You saved from stalks of plaintain; and the wren
  Small as a mouse and browner than a mouse,
  Too light to bend a reed,
  Snatches a darting battle in her greed
  That is no greed, but hunger, when the cold
  Such timorous and anxious mites makes bold.

  You watcher at the window, you who know
  Life's danger, and how narrow is the line,
  How slight the structure of your happiness,
  --Think on these little creatures in the snow.
  They are so fragile and so fine,
  So pitiably small, so lightly made,
  So brave and yet so very much afraid.
  They die so readily, with all their song.

  Yet think not they are friendly or secure
  As you with your intentions kind and pure;
  Your echoes of Saint Francis down the long
  Humane tradition from Assisi borne
  In charitable thought of human mind.
  Oh no! they're quarrelsome because forlorn;
  They fight for life; and, frightened, flit away
  Even from your good table, snatching crumbs
  To eat within the hedge, however kind
  Your meaning be, set up on pole or spike.
  It is not you they fear, but one another.
  --Christ would have said that bird to bird was brother,
  But Christ and Nature seldom speak alike.

  It thaws.  The hand of Winter slackens grip.
  "Wind's changed," he said, the old the lonely man
  Out in the woods at work before the dawn.
  "Wind's changed."  It seemed as summoning a phrase
  As a thanksgiving to an answered prayer.
  I looked, and saw above the hill-top pines
  Reddened by sunrise, that the whitened vanes
  Had swung.  "The wind's gone round," he surly said,
  Stooping to adze his frosty chestnut spiles.

  It thaws.  The fingers of the Winter drip.
  They weaken into water, as a heart
  Melted by love.  They are no longer cruel.
  They change their mind, as wind has changed its mind.
  They let the tiles upon the roofs appear,
  Brown in their ordinary character;
  They let the hedges in their lines appear
  Black in their winter custom; let the grass
  Show through the snow for hungry sheep to find.
  It thaws, and through the night that was so still
  When the moon rose above the fields of snow
  Now comes the sound of water pouring down
  Over the sluice within the dip of valley.

  Something of beauty goes.  This clean clean world
  So strangely silent of unwalken snow
  Printed by bird-claw and the pad of fox,
  Turns to a dirty thing, a compromise,
  Patchy and smudged, and all too like our life.

  Yet will the anxious peering gardener go,
  Looking for broken branches, buckled paths.
  He knows that underground his plants are safe
  Since snow is warm not cold; and thinks with relish
  Of little Alpines in accustomed cot
  With their white rug, a northern Silver Fleece,
  Not Golden as the ram that flew from Greece.

  He knows them safe; but still he greatly fears
  Fresh frost to follow on the kindly thaw,
  When the dread ice-rain, chain-mail, clattering,
  Clothes in a curtain all his tender sprigs--
  (Cruelty after kindness comes more harsh
  As kindness after cruelty more sweet.)
  Also, if he be wise, as gardeners are,
  He'll knock the melting snow as hedges bend
  Under wet weight, and curtsey to the ground
  Flexible wands of yew and edging-box.

  And then with thaw comes up the sudden rush
  Of growth that waited only on this hour,
  On this disclosure of the life beneath.
  As the slow secret movement in the life
  Of men and nations in their multitude
  Blanketed by oppression, poverty,
  And lack of light,--oh mostly lack of light--
  So on a sudden with the genial sun
  The aspiration of the myriad crowd
  Of pushing leaves and buds within their sheath
  Leaps with new motive in a long prepared
  Attack to pierce the slowly softening earth.
  A gentle mutiny; a pretty change;
  Haste without violence; and then a flower
  More lovely than mankind has ever brought to birth.

  Here leap the leaves, where none before were seen;
  Swords of narcissus and of daffodil,
  A sheaf of blades, too flexible, too green
  (It seems) to thrust their points; yet they appear
  From nowhere in a night and with the morn are here.
  Likewise the iris, that had sunk to ground
  In sodden mass of infelicity
  Lifts up her grass-green spear,
  And these are signs of spring, that spurious spring
  That comes in February to astound
  And, against reason, make our hearts believe.

  The yellow crocus through the grass will bring
  Her light as pointed as a candle flame,
  Not there at sunrise, but at midday there.
  And snowdrops that increase each year,
  Each leaf so tipped with white
  As though it too desired to bear a flower.

  Now in odd corners you may find
  Enough for little bunches, as a child
  Will bring you in hot hand a drooping gift
  Dragged from the hedges and the cranny wild,
  The daisy and the campion and the thrift,
  Too dead to save, but if your heart be kind
  Too dear to throw away
  Until the giver on some other quest
  Darts off to find a blackbird on her nest
  Or, dropped along the road, a wisp of hay.

  But these your winter bunches, jealously
  Picked on a February morning, they
  Are dearer than the plenteous summer.  See,
  One coloured primrose growing from a clump,
  One Lenten rose, one golden aconite,
  Dog Toby in his ruff, with varnish bright,
  One sprig of daphne, roseate or white,
  One violet beneath a mossy stump,
  One gold and purple iris, brave but small
  Child of the Caucasus, and bind them all
  Into a tussie-mussie packed and tight
  And envy not the orchid's rich delight.

  Shall I count March in Winter? yes, in this
  Dear northern island where the sun's late kiss
  Comes not till middle April.  We believe
  Too readily in pledges that deceive.
  In one day's promise of a warming air,
  In one day's painting by a stronger sun
  That on a sudden with a flying flare
  Deepens the shadows underneath the arch
  And touches all the tips to buds where none
  Yesterday showed, and sweeps a generous brush
  Across plantations of the ignoble larch,
  Across the lovelier copse
  With undefinable but certain flush
  Lingering on the catkins and the tops
  Of hazel and the sticky chestnut, when
  The small brown things are blown across the ground
  Between the fallen twigs and stubs and stones,
  --A leaf, a mouse, a wren?--
  All in a hurry in the wind of March.

  Then in the garden where the skeleton
  Leaves of the hornbeam rattle their brown bones
  Soon to be pushed aside
  As pitiless youth comes on
  Shoving and rowdy, crying out "Make way!"
  Young savages that mean to have their day,
  Those little waves of an audacious tide
  That, yesterday unnoted and unseen,
  Turned in one night senility's decay
  To the fresh life of inexperienced green,
  --Then, gardener, though you be an aged man
  And soon to lie where lie the twisted roots,
  Seize on your last advantage while you can;
  Sing your last lyric with the sappy shoots.

  Sow from your packets on the finely-raked
  Patches in autumn sweetened with the slaked
  Lime that corrects an acid soil
  And crumbles obstinate clay
  To lessen your stiff toil;
  (As the wood-ashes from your open hearth
  Piling too high and gray
  Will softly lighten and with potash feed
  The clamant earth,
  From fire's destruction to creation's need
  Aptly returned.)  Sow broad and liberal,
  But thinly spaced, for plants no less than men
  Ask space to be themselves, no sunless den
  Where lank and dank they narrow to a weed.
  Be generous and nature will repay.
  See how one seedling, fallen all by chance
  In some forgotten corner, as a stray,
  Spreads sturdy as a little bush and takes
  A yard of space, no cramping to an inch,
  And in its freedom breaks
  Into fresh growth without your vigilance
  That comes to stop and pinch
  And train and foster in the straitened way.

  This lesson learn from Nature, and observe.
  So might some waif of genius, strangely sprung,
  Flower in our English tongue,
  Divinely foolish and divinely young;
  Some poet from a scrap-heap, some new Keats
  Full of wild images and rich conceits,
  Breaking untrammelled, from convention free,
  Speak the large language that we still deserve.

  But you, oh gardener, poet that you be
  Though unaware, now use your seeds like words
  And make them lilt with colour nicely flung
  Where colour's wanted, light as humming-birds;
  For these your annuals are light of heart,
  Delicate in their texture, brief of life,
  Making the most of their impetuous part;
  Sweet irresponsibles of youth, or death;
  No middle-age; they nothing know between;
  No solemn roots for them who riot rife,
  Flipping their progeny to fates unseen
  Wind-borne or bird-borne, fugitive as breath,
  Springing where they have fallen in a new
  Quick fanfare of existence gaily spent,
  None knowing whence they came or where they went,
  Only that they were freshened with the dew
  And died with frost when Nature proved unkind,
  For they had only beauty; only knew
  Life in a happy summer; had no mind
  For schemes protective when the troubles came,
  But died, and left a label with their name.

  Their names were nymphs, and they were nymphs indeed,
  A whole mythology from pinch of seed.
  Nemesia and Viscaria, and that
  Blue-as-the-butterfly Phacelia;
  Love-in-mist Nigella, whose strong brat
  Appears unwanted like a very weed;
  Nemophila,--I knew a little boy
  Who called his doll Nemophila, for joy
  In that Greek word he fitted to a toy;
  But there's no end within a list that sheds
  Petals on summer, seeds on autumn beds,
  A list elaborate as chime of bells
  Known to the ringer in their composite peal
  Where difficult art must difficult skill conceal,
  Each separately used but woven in their time
  To make the melody of perfect chime
  Over the listening landscape richly rolled;
  So does the gardener choose a list to hold
  Sweet Sultan and Sweet Alyssum that smells
  Of sea-cliffs and short turf
  Where move the cropping sheep
  And sea-gulls waver sprinkled round the steep
  Crags that descend into the constant surf;
  A list of mignonette and marigold
  And other pretty things,
  But lest you be romancefully inclined
  Thinking that beauty unattended springs
  All jilly-jolly from your scatterings,
  Let dull instruction here remind
  That mignonette is tricky, and demands
  Firm soil, and lime, to follow your commands,
  Else failure comes, and shows a barren space
  Where you had looked for small but scented spires.

  Yet you more easily may light the fires
  Of Summer with the Californian
  Poppy, and the Siberian
  Wallflower, twanging both their orange lyres
  Even too loudly with a lack of grace,
  Vulgar but useful (as we mostly are,)
  Splashing more sunlight on a sunny place,
  A rug of such shrill colour, seen afar
  Down the long vista, cast in gold surprise
  At foot of yellow lupins that arise
  As full of honey as the laden bees
  Powdered with pollen on their Ethiop thighs.

  Malapert March is parent to all these,
  The sowing-time, when warmth begins to creep
  Into the soil, as he who handles earth
  With his bare hand well knows, and, stooping, feels
  The sun on his bare nape, and as he kneels
  On pad of sacking knows the stir of birth
  Even as woman quickened stirs from sleep
  And knows before all others in the deep
  Instinct's communion that so much reveals,
  The rite of the immediate future; so
  Does the good gardener sense propitious time
  And sows when seeds may grow
  In the warm soil that follows on the rime
  And on the breaking frost and on the snow.

  And then in safety shall he prune
  The rose with slicing knife above the bud
  Slanting and clean; and soon
  See the small vigour of the canted shoots
  Strike outwards in their search for light and air,
  Lifted above the dung about their roots,
  Lifted above the mud.
  Yet, unlike fashion's votary, beware
  Of pruning so that but the stumps remain,
  Miserly inches for the little gain
  Of larger flower, exhibition's boast.
  Neglect may hold a beauty of her own;
  Neglected gardens in these years of war
  When the fond owner wandered as a ghost
  Only in thought, and longed to cut and trim
  Having a vision of his roses prim
  As they should be, what time the month was flown,
  --Such gardens and their roses over-grown
  As never in their careful life before
  Flung to the daylight and the scented dark
  With no man there to mark
  A free and splendid tossing in a host
  As unexpected as it had been rare.

  But winter passes.  March is not yet done
  Before the solace of a warmer sun
  Strokes on our hands and takes us by surprise
  With a forgotten touch on naked skin.
  The almond breaks to pink against the skies;
  Then do we start, and with new-opened eyes
  See the true Spring begin.
  It flowers in the grass beneath our feet
  Where yesterday the colour sparse and thin
  Of some rathe daffodil blew here, or there,
  Not more than two or three,
  Like slender tinkle of a clavecin
  In a light sprinkle, single, stray, and rare,
  That overnight has flowed into a fleet
  Of yellow sails to ride the grassy sea.

  Then in a hurry where they all compete
  Spearing upon each other's tracks in haste
  To catch their chance of life, by sun set free,
  --Oh, what intoxication of the air!--
  Come crowding all the chaste
  And adolescent children of the Spring.
  Their music rises like the violin
  Taking her place in a full symphony,
  Piercing unbearably, so tart, so sweet,
  As flying notes upon the air take wing
  To twang within our heart an answered string.
  Then all the earth is bright with clean and neat
  Stars of the Apennine anemone,
  And coloured primrose cousin of the mild
  Insipid primrose in the wood's retreat,
  And varnished celandine, that golden child
  Unwanted of prolific March; then fling
  The sterile cherries in a canopy
  Translucent branches over and among
  The pavement of the flowers, in a wild
  Storm of successive blossom, lightly swung,
  So lightly it would seem that they took wing
  Also, in notes ethereal, and with Spring
  Taught us again the sense of being young.

  So March tips over, as a watershed
  Where runnels southward send their little race
  Towards a greener land, and grow and spread
  Till all the fertile veins of water lace
  The slopes towards the waiting valley, fed
  By snows of Winter, in a hurrying chase
  To reach the dry and bony river-bed
  And green its banks that like a skeleton
  Seemed finally and desperately dead.




  Spring



  "April is the cruellest month, breeding
  Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
  Memory and desire, stirring
  Dull roots with spring rain."

  Would that my pen like a blue bayonet
  Might skewer all such cats'-meat of defeat;
  No buttoned foil, but killing blade in hand.
  The land and not the waste land celebrate,
  The rich and hopeful land, the solvent land,
  Not some poor desert strewn with nibbled bones,
  A land of death, sterility, and stones.

  We know that the ultimate vex is the same for all:
  The discrepancy
  Between the vision and the reality.
  When this has been said, the last sad word is said.
  There is nothing to add but the fact that we had the vision,
  And this was a grace in itself, the decision
  We took between hope and despond;
  The different way that we heard and accepted the call;
  The different way
  We tried to respond.

  Let me respond my way, construct my theme
  From particles of a different dream,
  Be it illusion as well it may.
  I would sooner hope and believe
  Than dig for my living life a present grave.

  Though I must die, the only thing I know,
  My only certainty, so far ahead
  Or just around the corner as I go,
  Not knowing what the dangerous turn will bring,
  Only that some one day I must be dead,
  --I still will sing with credence and with passion
  In a new fashion
  That I will believe in April while I live.
  I will believe in Spring,
  That custom of the year, so frail, so brave,
  Custom without a loss of mystery.

  April the angel of the months, the young
  Love of the year.  Ancient and still so young,
  Lovelier than the craven's paradox;
  Christ's Easter and the Syrian Adonis'
  When all things turn into their contrary,
  Death into life and silence into sound;
  When all the bells of Rome
  Leap from their Lenten lull, and all the birds,
  --Small bells more myriad than the Roman bells;
  And all the flow'rs like Botticelli's flow'rs
  Small, brilliant, close to earth, and youngly gay.

  The Pasque-flow'r which ignores
  A date the moon ordained, but takes its rule
  From sun and rain, as both by chance occur;
  Yet some years by a nice coincidence
  Opens upon our very Easter-day
  (When the sun dances or is said to dance,)
  Lavender petals sheathed in silver floss
  Soft as the suffle of a kitten's fur;
  That pulsatilla, 'shaken by the wind',
  That fragile native of the chalky Downs;

  Innumerable, the small flow'rs that stitch
  Their needlework on canvas of the ground.
  In the low foreground of their tapestry
  They startle and exceedingly enrich.
  There's a profusion hardly to be counted
  When flow'r from bulb appears with each new Spring,
  Like to a spring of water newly founted,
  Breaking the earth, and each an Easterling.

  Bubbles of colour striking through the bleak
  Dun soil, surprising, in a week,
  As the low desert-flowers after rain
  Leap into being where they were not seen
  Few hours before, and soon are gone again.
  So in our English garden comes the Greek
  Blue wind-flow'r, cousin of the meek
  Bashful anemone of English woods,
  As thick as shingle strewn on Chesil Beach;
  So comes the Lady Tulip, with her streak
  Of pink that ribs her white; and through the green
  Of young fine grass, the Glory of the Snow,
  So blue, a smear of fallen sky; come each
  In quick succession as they grow and blow
  In liberal April, host to little guests:

  The azure scilla, and the indigo
  Grape-hyacinth in cluster like the breasts
  Of the Ephesian mother of the earth,
  Fecund Diana, and from seed self-sown
  Running between the cracks of paving-stone
  In rivulets of blue will wind and flow.
  So lavish all, so piercing, and so bright
  That all the words of all the tongues of men are worth
  Not one quick instant's sight.

  Yet, sealed upon the wax of memory,
  Certain imprints, as in a peepshow's frame,
  Brilliant and artificial, catch the light
  To burn forever with a coloured flame
  Always within the mind, chameleon,
  Flaring the saddened corners and the doom.
  The place, the hour, the flow'r, may have no name;
  Is it Mycenae or the Lebanon?
  Mycenae where the wild-flow'r rugs are spread
  For the wild bees that hive in Agamemnon's tomb
  Though Helen's false and Menelaus dead?
  Is it the Lebanon that looks across
  To Palestine and throws the cedar shade
  To touch the greater shadow of the Cross
  Though Christ be slain and Mary still a Maid?
  It matters not, it matters not a shred
  Whence beauty comes, if beauty only be
  Held in the heart with love her constant twin,
  Great myths that answer many a mystery.

  The Syrian ranges and the Grecian mound....
  Or simpler painting of our English ground
  As varied as the cloak of harlequin.
  See, down the nut-plat, washing in a tide
  That laves each inch of soil, the manifold
  Wealth of the coloured primrose, thick and wide,
  Butter-and-eggs, with stripes of tiger-skin,
  And saffron lakes, all shot with sun, and pied,
  And clumps of polyanthus laced with gold.
  The leopard's camouflage, the lion's pride,
  Were not more freckled, tawny, than this mob
  Matted in clusters, lowly, and so dense
  They hide the earth beneath their opulence;
  And down the colonnades of Kentish cob
  Two little statues, one at either end,
  Wistfully watch each other through the years,
  Parted for ever, that can only send
  Messages from their eyes too hard for tears;
  Eros and Aphrodite, in defeat,
  The prince of love, the queen of loveliness,
  Never to touch and never to caress
  Since from their pedestals they cannot move to meet.

  Weave the poor poet all his ablest words
  Into a poacher's snare, a springle set,
  Making a mesh of pretty nouns his string
  With knots of adjective and epithet,
  Simple, felicitous, or richly grand,
  --The finch of beauty struggles through the net
  And bearing off her gold upon the wing
  Is gone, uncaught, into a different air,
  He knows not where,
  Only that she is not within his hand.

  Such days, such days so wealthy and so warm
  As tempt the very busy bees to swarm,
  Make the articulate poet silent; live
  Instead of speaking; leave his desk and leave
  His books, his foolscap, and the blue-black ink
  Drying upon his pen as the sun falls
  Hot on his table, beating on the walls.

  How blessed to exist and not to think!

  He becomes one with Nature, sensitive
  Only to that which happens, as the bee;
  He is both permanent and fugitive;
  He is the mole, the weasel, or the hawk;
  He is the seed, the first leaf, and the stalk;
  He grows, he breathes, he lives, and he is free,
  Child of the sun and of the stroking air
  Warming as he emerges from his door
  As though he pushed aside
  The leathern curtain of cathedral porch
  In Italy, and came outside
  Followed by incense, to the pavement's scorch,
  And shrank from glare of marble to the shade
  Rounded in caverns of the curved arcade.

  But in this dear delusion of a South
  Which never was and never can be ours,
  Drowsy, voluptuous, and rich in sloth,
  We northerners must turn towards our flowers.
  They are our colour; brave, they are our flags;
  A living substitute for marble swags;
  They flutter as the dressing of a ship,
  Long pennants that in breezes blow and dip,
  Gay as the washing of Venetian rags,
  Cracking in colour as the lash of whip
  Fine in the air, or as a feathered phrase,
  An arrow shot of poetry or prose,
  And each a note within a hymn of praise.

  April's the busy month, the month that grows
  Faster than hand can follow at its task;
  No time to relish and no time to bask,
  (Though when indeed is that the gardener's lot,
  However large, however small his plot?)
  April's the month for pruning of the rose,
  April's the month when the good gardener sows
  More annuals for summer, cheap and quick,
  Yet always sows too thick
  From penny packets scattered on a patch
  With here a batch of poppy, there a batch
  Of the low candytuft or scabious tall
  That country children call
  Pincushions, with their gift
  Of accurate observance and their swift
  Naming more vivid than the botanist.
  So the good gardener will sow his drift
  Of larkspur and forget-me-not
  To fill blank space, or recklessly to pick;
  And gay nasturtium writhing up a fence
  Splotching with mock of sunlight sunless days
  When latening summer brings the usual mist.

  He is a millionaire for a few pence.
  Squandering Nature in her gift exceeds
  Even her own demands.
  Consider not the lily, but her seeds
  In membrane tissue packed within the pod
  With skill that fools the skill of human hands;
  The poppy with her cracking pepper-pot
  That spills in ripened moment split asunder;
  The foxglove with her shower fine as snuff.
  Consider these with thankfulness and wonder,
  Nor ever ask why that same God
  If it was He who made the flow'rs, made weeds:

  The thistle and the groundsel with their fluff;
  The little cresses that in waste explode
  Mistaken bounty at the slightest touch;
  The couch-grass throwing roots at every node,
  With wicked nick-names like its wicked self,
  Twitch, quitch, quack, scutch;
  The gothic teazle, tall as hollyhock,
  Heraldic as a halberd and as tough;
  The romping bindweed and the rooting dock;
  The sheeny celandine that Wordsworth praised,
  (He was no gardener, his eyes were raised;)
  The dandelion, cheerful children's clock
  Making a joke of minutes and of hours,
  Ironical to us who wryly watch;
  Oh why, we ask, reversing good intentions,
  Was Nature so ingenious in inventions,
  And why did He who must make weeds, make flowers?

  Let us forget the sorrows: they are there
  Always, but Spring too seldom there;
  Once in a life-time only; oh seize hold!
  Sweet in the telling once, but not re-told.
  In Nature's cycle blessed once a year,
  Not long enough to savour, but more dear
  For all the anguish of its brevity.

  Then in the poignant moment made aware
  We are all things, the flower and the tree,
  Detail of petal, and the general burst
  Greening the valley and th' horizon hurst;
  The bud still folded and the bud fulfilled;
  We are the distant landscape and the near.
  We are the drought, we are the dew distilled;
  The saturated land, the land athirst;
  We are the day, the night, the light, the dark;
  The water-drop, the stream; the meadow and the lark.

  We are the picture, and the hand that paints;
  The trodden pathway, and the foot that trod;
  We are the humble echo of great saints
  Who knew that God was all, and all was God.

  Look round for truth when truth is near at hand,
  So simple now it seems but life and love,
  --Perhaps the general answer to a scheme
  So strangely ciphered that in our extreme
  Perplexity we stand
  Most piteously duped by foolish feints.

  Small is our vision, rare the searchlight beam;
  Few moments given but in truth supreme.
  Transcendent moments, when the simpler theme
  Is suddenly perceived
  And by our intricate uncertainty
  We are no more deceived.

  Resurgent May, softness with energy,
  Warmth after cold, reunion after loss.
  It is a columbarium full of doves,
  A susurration of the living leaves.
  Murmur, old music; Sun, shake out your locks,
  That heavy fleece, that rowelled aureole;
  But in th' intoxication of this spilth
  Let us be stolid as the flood arrives;
  Practise a difficult sobriety,
  Keep hold on wits, not lose them in the fierce
  Draughts of such wine.  Not think on spurious heaven,
  --The drunkard's heaven in a bottle sealed,
  The lover's heaven in a woman's arms,
  The miser's heaven in a bag of coins,
  Or this the poet's and the gardener's heaven
  When all comes true, collusive flattery
  Of consummation waiting on desire.

  Not think on heaven, for we tread on earth
  And must stay soberly about our business,
  Anchored to realism, knowing well
  That there's no pausing for complacency
  But only vision of a better future;
  Next year, not this year, therefore must we turn
  Our glance from present pleasure, and prepare.
  Always prepare: the urge, the wish to travel
  Forward, and never rest on point of time.

  Therefore the while your current wall-flow'rs blow,
  --Bronze as a pheasant, ruby as old wine
  Held up against the light,--in string-straight line
  Next year's supply on seed-bed you shall sow
  Unless an early drought postpone till June,
  And watch the little seedlings as they grow,
  Thinning them out, for far too generous
  The generative warmth of amorous bed;
  (Friable fistfuls of the soil are warm
  To naked hand) and a kind discipline
  Shall later check the young impetuous growth,
  Stopping the very centre of their impulse,
  Incomprehensibly, with cruel-kind
  Slice of the knife aslant through sappy shoot,
  And from that wound shall sturdier bushes spring.

  And thus shall all biennials have your care,
  Sown in their drills in May, that the full year
  May pass before their last accomplishment;
  The bell-flow'rs, and the Indian pinks; Sweet Rocket,
  Scabious and hollyhock and Honesty.

  But also think on more immediate months
  And bring those annuals that fear the frost,
  Loving the sun, more splendid for their briefness,
  Out from their boxes sheltered under glass:
  Mexican zinnias and the Texan phlox,
  African marigolds, all bright exotics;
  And sow when danger of the frost is past
  Generous sprinklings of night-scented stock,
  Dingy and insignificant and plain,
  But speaking with a quiet voice at dusk.

  These for the Summer; and with heedful eye
  Quick as a hatching bird, the gardener roves
  Precautionary, nipping mischief's bud.
  For mischief buds at every joint and node,
  Plentiful as the burgeon of the leaves:
  Fungus and mildew, blight and spot and rust,
  Canker and mould, a sallow sickly list;
  The caterpillar that with hump and heave
  Measures the little inches of his way;
  And, pullulating more than Tartar hordes,
  Despoiling as they travel, procreation
  Calamitous in ravage, multitude
  Unnumbered, come the insect enemies,
  Tiny in sevralty, in union dire,
  Clustered as dense as pile in plush--the aphis
  Greening the hopeful shoot, the evil ant
  Armoured like daimios, in horrid swarm
  Blackening twigs, or hidden down their hole
  Mining amongst the roots till flagging heads
  Of plants betray their presence.
                                   Gardener,
  Where is your armistice?  You hope for none.
  It will not be, until yourself breed maggots.

  Moles from the meadow will invade your plot;
  Pink palm, strong snout, and velvet energy
  Tunnel a system worthy of a sapper;
  Heave monticules while you lie snug-a-bed,
  And heave again, fresh chocolate, moist mould,
  In mounds that show their diligent direction,
  Busy while you but break your nightly fast,
  Visible evidence of secret work,
  And overground the nimble hopping rabbit
  Soft as a baby's toy, finds out the new
  Cosseted little plants with tender hand
  Set out in innocence to do their duty.
  Poor gardener! poor stubborn simpleton,
  Others must eat, though you be bent on beauty.

  Yet you have allies in this freakish scheme
  Of nature's contradictions.  The good bee,
  Unconscious agent; and the funny hedgehog;
  The toad you nearly step on, blebbed and squat;
  The glow-worm, little torch that bores its light
  Into the shelly cavern of the snail;
  The lady-bird, the Bishop Barnaby,
  So neat in oval spotted carapace,
  A joke to children, but to aphides
  A solemn foe....  Oh curious little world,
  Nether, yet paralleled against our own.

  And more demands exact the gardener's care.
  Those reckless buds, those ill-advisd shoots!
  "A tie so soon prevents their doom," they say,
  So stake before the havoc of the gale,
  The rough South-west that wears a cloak of rain,
  But whether bruzzy hazel-tops you choose
  Or pointed sticks from handy spinney cut,
  Or bought bamboo,--set early into place
  That growing plants may hide the artifice
  And of your cunning cover up the trace.

  Then for a moment may you pause, an hour
  To let the snake of satisfaction creep,
  Writhing round corners, slithering down paths,
  Rustling through grass, and, like that other serpent
  Whispering in that other garden, tempt
  To snug complacency, that foe to wisdom.
  "Here you succeeded; this you plotted well;
  Here did you turn the stream of Nature's will,
  Damming the wilderness of her invasion;
  Here did you triumph, here did you compel;
  Here took advantage of a happy hazard;
  Here, like a poet, made your colours rhyme;
  Here, like a painter, made your pattern plain.
  Rest now; enjoy; sit back; the years slip on
  With many a little death before the last
  Orgulous swordsman like a matador
  Thrusts, and has done.  The many little deaths,
  Death of the ear, the half-death of the eye,
  The muscle limping where it ran, the loss
  Of strength that gradual as a dropping wind
  Becalms the still-spread sails.  Worst wane of all,
  A lessening most hardly to be borne,
  The pricking banderillas of the years
  Bleed from your flanks in loss of that most precious
  Zest of endeavour and anticipation,
  Jewels of youth, those undivided twins
  That live and die by one another's breath
  And have no separate being."

  Dangerous counsel ever caught the ear,
  Yet for that pleasing moment, not unduly
  Prolonged, consider now the fruits of labour:
  The tulips, that have pushed a pointed tusk
  In steady inches, suddenly resolve
  Upon their gesture.  Earliest the royal
  Princes of Orange and of Austria,
  Their courtier the little Duc van Thol,
  And, since the State must travel with the Church,
  In plum-shot crimson, Couleur Cardinal.

  But grander than these dwarfs diminutive,
  Comes the tall Darwin with the waxing May.
  Can stem so slender bear such sovereign head
  Nor stoop with weight of beauty?  See, her pride
  Equals her beauty; never grew so straight
  A spire of faith, nor flew so bright a flag
  Lacquered by brush-stroke of the painting sun.
  And in the darkest corner of a room
  One sheaf of tulips splashes; it illumes,
  Challenge to mournfulness, so clean, so kempt,
  As in the garden, brilliant regiment,
  Their stretch illumes the distance.
                                     In their range
  From the white chastity of Avalanche
  They pass through yellow of the buttercup
  To cherry and the deepening red of blood
  Violently based on dark electric blue;
  All sheen, all burnish, orient as the pearl;
  Lavender fringed with silver; royal purple
  Growing more sonorous in glossy black
  Of Faust and Sultan and La Tulipe Noire.
  Ah, there were floods of tulips once in Holland;
  There were old loving men with expert fingers,
  Leading the better life of courtesy.

  And if to vary the severity
  Of single colour in a single flower
  Your thoughts incline, set separate a patch
  Of broken sports, by purist not esteemed
  But loved by painters for the incidence
  Of wayward streak and hint of porcelain.
  The Rembrandt tulip, leather-brown and white
  So finely feathered, brush of sable's hair
  Never laid more exact, nor monkish clerk
  Dusted his gold-leaf with more spare a hand;
  Or the Bizarre in broken rose-and-white,
  A china cup, a polished cup up-held
  (Too maidenly; I cannot like so well;)
  Or else the Parrot, better called the Dragon,
  Ah, that's a pranking feat of fantasy,
  Swirling as crazy plumes of the macaw,
  Green flounced with pink, and fringed, and topple-heavy,
  A tipsy flower, lurching with the fun
  Of its vagary.  Has it strayed and fallen
  Out of the prodigal urn, the Dutchman's canvas
  Crammed to absurdity? or truly grown
  From a brown bulb in brown and sober soil?

  So cosmopolitan, these English tulips,
  To cottager as native as himself!
  Aliens, that Shakespeare neither saw nor sang.
  Alien Asiatics, that have blown
  Between the boulders of a Persian hill
  Long centuries before they reached the dykes
  To charm van Huysum and the curious Brueghel,
  And Rachel Ruysch, so nice so leisurely
  That seven years were given to two pictures.

  Tulip, _dulband_, a turban; rare
  Persian that wanders in our English tongue.

    _How fair the flowers unaware
    That do not know what beauty is!
    Fair, without knowing they are fair,
    With poets and gazelles they share
        Another world than this._

    _They can but die, and not betray
    As friends or love betray the heart.
    They can but live their pretty day
    And do no worse than simply play
        Their brief sufficient part._

    _They cannot break the heart, as friend
    Or love may split our trust for ever.
    We never asked them to pretend:
    Death is a clean sufficient end
        For flower, friend, or lover._




  Summer



  Sweet June.  Is she of Summer or of Spring,
  Of adolescence or of middle-age?
  A girl first marvelling at touch of lovers
  Or else a woman growing ripely sage?
  Between the two she delicately hovers,
  Neither too rakish nor, as yet, mature.
  She's not a matron yet, not fully sure;
  Neither too sober nor elaborate;
  Not come to her fat state.
  She has the leap of youth, she has the wild
  Surprising outburst of an earnest child.
  Sweet June, dear month, while yet delay
  Wistful reminders of a dearer May;
  June, poised between, and not yet satiate.

  What pleasant sounds: the scythe in the wet grass
  Where ground's too rough for the machine to pass,
  (Grass should be wet for a close cut, the blade
  Hissing like geese as swathe by swathe is laid;)
  The pigeons on the roof, the hives aswarm;
  June is the month of sounds.  They melt and merge
  Softer than shallow waves in pebbled surge
  Forward and backward in a summer cove;
  The very music of the month is warm,
  The very music sings the song of love.

  Such murmurous concert all our sense confounds.
  The breath within the trees
  Is it of doves or bees,
  Or our own ripened heart
  That must take part
  Adding its cadence to the symphonies
  Of June, that month of sounds?

  That month of sounds, that month of scents,
  That sensuous month when every sense
  Ripens, and yet is young;
  Th' external world, by which we judge
  And sterner rules of reason grudge;
  That dear misleading framework of our faith,
  Truth in untruth, that picture slung
  From such precarious nail; that nectarous breath
  Of music, when the senses grow confused
  And each might be the other; when, bemused,
  We stray through thickets of the honeyed air.
  But, Wanderer, then beware
  Of beanfields amorous to strolling lovers,
  Too dangerous (they say) to dally there
  Along the hedgerow by the serried coverts
  Where murmuring cushats hint that love is fair.
  No sweeter load was ever laid at eve
  Across the shoulders of the country's sweep
  Mantled in June that, drowsing, seem asleep
  But stir to greet the dream that all believe.

  June of the iris and the rose.
  The rose not English as we fondly think.
  Anacreon and Bion sang the rose;
  And Rhodes the isle whose very name means rose
  Struck roses on her coins;
  Pliny made lists and Roman libertines
  Made wreaths to wear among the flutes and wines;
  The young Crusaders found the Syrian rose
  Springing from Saracenic quoins,
  And China opened her shut gate
  To let her roses through, and Persian shrines
  Of poetry and painting gave the rose.

  The air of June is velvet with her scent,
  The realm of June is splendid with her state.
  Asia and Europe to our island lent
  These parents of our rose,
  Yet Albion took her name from her white rose
  Not from her cliffs, some say.  So let it be.
  We know the dog-rose, flinging free
  Whip-lashes in the hedgerow, starred with pale
  Shell blossom as a Canterbury Tale,
  The candid English genius, fresh and pink
  As Chaucer made us think,
  Singing of adolescent meads in May.
  That's not the rose in her true character;
  She's a voluptuary; think of her
  Wine-dark and heavy-scented of the South,
  Stuck in a cap or dangled from a mouth
  As soft as her own petals.  That's the rose!
  No sentimentalist, no maiden sweet,
  Appealing, half-forlorn,
  But deep and old and cunning in deceit,
  Offering promises too near the thorn.
  She is an expert and experienced woman
  Wearing her many faces
  Pleasing to different men in different places;
  She plays the madrigal when moist with dew
  To charm the English in their artless few,
  But at her wiser older broad remove
  Remains an Asiatic and a Roman,
  Accomplice of the centuries and love.

  Dangerous beauty we have sometimes seen,
  Dangerous moments we have sometimes had.
  Thus I saw floating in a sunken pool
  A pavement of red roses in Baghdad.

  A floating floor of dark beheaded blood
  Between blue tiles that feigned to look so cool,
  And that was beauty, sunk in liquid floor
  Of roses and of water red as war,
  But other visions took me on their flood
  To other blood-red points where I had been:

  St. Mark's in Venice on an Easter-day
  Deep as the petals of Arabian rose,
  When a great Cardinal in robes arose
  Tremendous in the pulpit, and began
  "Cos diceva lo scrittor pagan" ....
  Virgil a living presence in the church;
  Lambent mosaics, tarnished in their gold,
  And all things heavy with their age, so old
  They seemed as distant as my own lost search.

  Those blood-red roses floating in the pool,
  That blood-red lamp above the altar slung,
  Were they identical, or I a fool?
  God's lamp His own red rose, where censers swung?

  Heavy July.  Too rampant and too lush;
  High Summer, dull, fulfilled, and satiate,
  Nothing to fear, and little to await.
  The very birds are hush.
  Dark over-burdened woods: too black, their green.
  No leaping promise, no surprise, no keen
  Difficult fight against a young, a lean
  Sharp air and frozen soil; no contest bright
  Of fragile courage winning in despite.
  Easy July, when all too warmly blows
  The surfeit of the rose
  Risking no harm;
  And those aggressive indestructible
  Bores, the herbaceous plants, that gladly take
  Whatever's given and make no demand
  Beyond the careless favour of a stake;
  Humble appeal, not arrogant command,
  Like some tough spinster, doughty, duteous,
  All virtue and no charm.

  I have no love for such fulfilment, none.
  Too sweet, the English rain; too soft, the sun.
  Too rank, midsummer in our gently moist
  Island that never riots to extremes.
  Moderate beauty, yet insidious,
  The veils that magicked Shakespeare into dreams;

  England, as douce as any woman's muff.
  Where is the violence, the shrilly-voiced
  Cicada of the arid plain?
  Where the intransigence of Afric Spain?
  Where are the stones, the fireflies, and the rough
  Danger of mountain road?
  Skeletons like the ribs of ships
  Where beasts have fallen, broken by their load?
  Even the aloe, used as cruel goad?
  Sunlight on columns, lizards on the rocks?
  There is another landscape, and my blood
  Nostalgic stirs; I think upon the flocks
  Raggedly seeking pasture in the scrub,
  But must content myself with hollyhocks
  And moisture-loving phlox
  And the obliging shrub
  Here in my lovely island, tender, safe,
  While yet I chafe
  For sunburnt wastes the colour of the fox.

  Too tame, too smug, I cry;
  There's no adventure in security;
  Yet still my little garden craft I ply,
  Mulch, hoe, and water when the ground is dry;
  Cut seeding heads; thin out the stoning fruit;
  Cut out th' unwanted, tie the wanted, shoot;
  Weed paths that with one summer shower of rain
  For all my labour are as green again.
  And so strive on, for there is no repose
  Even though Summer redden with the rose.
  Slug, snail, and aphis force a busy day,
  With traps of orange-peel and lettuce-leaves to lay,
  And buckets of insecticide to spray.
  Black Spot, Red Rust, Red Spider, all the scale
  Of enemy controlled by frothy pail,
  Soft-soap and quassia chips, a murderous bath,
  And in the evening note the hob-nail trail
  Of slime, and crush the snail
  Brittle as biscuit on the garden path.

  (Here will the mottled thrush your helpmate be
  With tap tap tap in secret carpentry
  As one who hammers on a distant nail,
  Heard, but too rarely seen.)

  Now will the water-lilies stain the lake
  With cups of yellow, chalices of cream,
  Set in their saucer leaves of olive-green
  On greener water, motionless, opaque,
  --This haunt of ducks, of grebes, and poacher herns.
  Now is the stillness deeper than a dream;
  Small sounds, small movements shake
  This quietude, that deeper then returns
  After the slipping of the water-snake,
  The jump of trout, the sudden cry of coot,
  The elegiac hoot
  Of owls within the bordering wood, that take
  The twilight for their own.
  This is their hour, and mine; we are alone;
  I drift; I would that I might never wake.

  Wake to a world where all important seem
  Immediate actions in our little scheme,
  Trifles of urgency, our warp and weft.
  There is another world that doubles this poor world,
  Where intimations like a source, a stream
  Sprung from a rock by bolt of vision cleft
  Crowd on the spirit in an hour too brief
  But in its stab, extreme.
  Mine be those hours, their value, and their theft.
  Are they the thief, or is the world the thief?
  Let others say.  I know but what I know,
  And when I know, I have no need to ask.

  And as with steps obedient and slow
  Homeward I turn, and to the tool-shed go,
  With dusk preparing to resume my task,
  Take out the shining spade, the trug, the hoe,
  Then once more must I stand amazed, for lo
  The heavens change, as storm without a sound
  Comes from the south, empurpling all the sky
  Save where a province of rich gold doth lie
  Above the tree-tops, strikes the distant vane,
  And sweeps the stubble in a light profound
  Such as I never saw, nor hope to see again.

  And, fortune piled on fortune, comes a flight
  Of snow-white pigeons crossing that dark cloud,
  Luminous convoy slow against the wrack;
  And as to frame their passage stands a proud
  A double rainbow, perfect in its bright
  Half-circle touching Heaven, and the ground.

  Such things are given; never taken back.

  Strange were those summers; summers filled with war.
  I think the flowers were the lovelier
  For danger.  Then we lived the pundonor,
  Moment of truth and honour, when the bull
  Charges and danger is extreme, but skill
  And daring over-leap the fallible will
  And bring the massive beast to noble kill.
  Moments as sharp as sword-points then we lived
  Citing our death along the levelled blade;
  Then in our petty selves were shaken, sieved,
  Withouten leisure left to be afraid.

  It was a strange, a fierce, unusual time.
  Death's certain threat, that most men think remote,
  Not for today, but for another day,
  For some tomorrow surely far away,
  Unreal as an ancient anecdote,
  Came near, and did not smite, but sometimes smote.

  We lived exalted to a different clime;
  Not in safe seats behind the palisade
  Watching while others risk the scarlet sweep
  And make the pass of death before the Thing
  Cited at bay to take the estocade
  And spout the lung-blood dark upon the sand,
  Sinking at last in slow and sculptural heap
  At foot of the young dazzling matador
  Armed only with his sword and wrist and hand,--
  Not as spectators in those days of war
  But in the staind ring.

  Strange little tragedies would strike the land;
  We sadly smiled, when wrath and strength were spent
  Wasted upon the innocent.
  Upon the young green wheat that grew for bread;
  Upon the gardens where with pretty head
  The flowers made their usual summer play;
  Upon the lane, and gaped it to a rent
  So that the hay-cart could not pass that way.
  So disproportionate, so violent,
  So great a force a little thing to slay.
  --Those craters in the simple fields of Kent!

    _It took a ton of iron to kill this lark,
      This weightless freeman of the day.
    All in its fate was irony.  It lay
    Tiny among monstrosities of clay,
    Small solitary victim of the dark._

    _None other shared its fate, not the soft herd
      Heavily ruminant, full-fed;
    Not man or woman in their cottage bed;
    Only this small, still-perfect thing lay dead.
    I weighed it in my hand.  How light, a bird!_

    _Imponderable puff, it should have died
      Singing as it had lived; been found
    By death between the heaven and the ground;
    Not suffered this eclipse without the sound
    Of song by last gross irony denied._

  Coppices I have seen, so rudely scarred,
  With all their leaves in small confetti strown;
  The hazels blasted and the chestnut charred;
  Yet by the Autumn, leaves of Spring had grown.
  How temporary, War, with all its grief!
  Permanence only lay in sap and seed.
  They knew that life was all their little need,
  And life was still in the untimely leaf.

  This was our miniature, our minor share
  In Europe's misery and desolation;
  Not in our habit; war had never crossed
  Our arrogant frontier; others met the cost,
  But not our own, our moated isle, our nation.
  England was sea-borne, Venus in her shell,
  Lovely to her own self, and safe beyond compare;
  We had heard echoes of an ernful knell
  Sounding across our seas.  We were not there.
  We were at home, although our sons might go
  As young men go, but we at home in slow
  Resentment at an insult found at length
  That half the sinews of our strength
  Were cut by knives that slashed them from the air;
  Yet, angry and astonished as we were
  We kept our faith and even at moments said

    "_This war will be over soon._"
    _Yes, in September or perhaps November,
    With some full moon or gibbous moon,
    A harvest moon or else a hunter's moon
    It will be over._

    _Not for the broken innocent villages,
    Not for the broken innocent hearts:
    For them it will not be over,
    The memorable dread,
    The lost home, the lost son, and the lost lover._

    _Under the rising sun, the waxing moon,
    This war will be over soon,
    But only for the dead._

  Strange were those summer nights, those nights of war.
  The sky was all too busy and too full;
  Beauty and terror both too bountiful.
  We knew not which was which, of sound or sight;
  Which held the richer store.
  For sound the invisible war-planes overhead
  Lost in the star-flecked velvet of the night,
  And distant guns that sped
  Fountains of fireworks such as children love,
  Quick in ascent and languid in descent,
  But poised for one pure moment at the peak;
  And tracer bullets in a level streak
  Cutting below the stars.
                           Then cried that most
  Sinister plaint, prophetic sad lament,
  Near, and then distant, as the call
  Took up in rise and fall,
  Ellinge as household ghost;
  As beacons once strung out along the Downs,
  Took up from villages and little towns
  To darkened hamlets in the Weald of Kent
  Not safe within the muffle of their oaks;
  And from the English coast
  Came guns that bruised the door,
  Twitched at the windows, quavered in the floor,
  And nearer still, and near,
  In their great concert came, in thunder-strokes,
  And travelled on to London with their roar
  Dying away, for other men to hear.

  Strange things we did, that none had done before.
  Sinister fears beset th' unseasoned mind;
  Incalculable science, dubious friend,
  More dubious still when turned to evil end;
  We saw ourselves in horror choking, blind,
  And mad precautions--were they mad or sane?--
  Outraged our valid life in a profane
  Lunatic twist where guardian science fought
  With murderous science, barely to defend
  Life which was all, though grace of life was nought.

  Strange things indeed, that none had thought to do!
  Dug trenches in the orchard when the fruit
  Hung for September's picking; hung, and fell
  Into the gashes open at the root.
  We thrust our children in that clammy cell;
  Like beasts we went to earth, for their small sake;
  The vixen's litter, hidden in the brake,
  Slept softer than the infant sons of men.
  And we created darkness.  Sons of light
  By God's intention, over sea and land
  In one wide gesture of erasing hand
  We swept that symbol from our natural night.
  No window in the sleeping village street,
  No window in the cottages discrete;
  Hidden, and like a child afraid
  Shrinking beneath the bed-clothes that persuade
  Into a sense of safety, then
  We cowered in our darkness, yet we made
  Different light, and watched it from the shades.

  So tall and yet so silent as they stride,
  Slow scissors walking up and down the black;
  Soundless collision of their closing blades
  That cut a star in half, and leave no track.
  Sound should accompany such giant glide,
  Expected sound, to match so grave a scale,
  But like all lofty natives of the night
  They're mute, it is their very quality.

  Only the little native of low glades,
  The frog, the owl, the thicket nightingale,
  With tiny voice lift sylvan serenades
  To different splendour on a different height:
  Planets that are, and were not, suddenly
  In solitary presence, primrose nail,
  Fixed in the wash of sea-green sky as pale;
  The dozy moon, the meteor quick in flight,
  Are taciturn in their mysterious pride.

  So joined in ancient and processional rite
    Comes, unforeseen, this new
  Magnificence to take belated place, and slue
    High pivots without sound.
  Oh see! their coronet of beams that spear
  Our darkness in inverted chandelier
  Based on the ordinary ground;
    Notice, the while they veer,
  The earth we live on shows both small and round.
  We had not known th' horizon thus in curve
  Unless at sea.  Like truth without a swerve
  Stiff from their base they rear their pyramid.
  And see, at meeting apex, how they hold
  A wide-winged dove, a crucifix in gold.
  Is it a dove, soft-feathered? or a plane
  Tiny with murder? or a wooden Cross?
    A dove, a plane, a Cross, amid
  The meeting beams at their convergent vane?
  Here is new beauty turned into our gain.
    This dove, this cross, within the rays
  Caught as a floating point across the ways
  Of the old skies, their old their travelled floor.
  Can beauty then be born of hideous war?
  So frightful parent bear so fair a child?
  Watching, I wonder; and a hope too wild
  Crosses my spirit, to requite our loss.
  Can some fine purity emerge from dross,
  Washed free from gravel, sifted, ore to find?
  If I could not believe so, I must die
  And worse than die, give up my soul's belief,
  Deep Death beyond the body or the mind,
  Grief gone beyond all human thought of grief.

  Strange, how these lights examine round our sky...

  Strangest of all, we knew that it must pass;
  We knew the curtained future somewhere held
  (However dark the glass,)
  That unbelieved-in day of fear expelled
  When extraordinary death should cease
  And only ordinary death remain,
  And men throughout their little world regain
  The trim that they call peace.

  So in the gardener's more persistent war
  Where man not always is the conqueror,
  We plodded as we could, and fought
  Permanent enemies, of weed and wing:
  The strangling bindweed and the running strands
  Of crowsfoot, and the suckers of the rose,
  Inordinate thorns that mangle our poor hands;
  All these must every rank Summer bring,
  And August duly brought
  Swarms of a summer enemy, of those
  Small samurai in lacquered velvet dressed,
  Innumerable in their vermin breed
  As fierce and fiery as a spark of gleed,
  Scavengers on a gormandising quest
  To batten on the treasure of our crops
  Of promised fruit, our gages, Golden Drops,
  Our peaches downy as a youthful cheek,
  Our nectarines, in adolescence sleek;
  They came, destructive though we sought their nest,
  Those fiends that rustic oracles call wopse.

  There's not a rhyme to _wasp_ in English tongue.
  Poor wasp, unloved, unsung!
  Only the homely proverb celebrates
  These little dragons of the summer day
  That each man hates.
  'Wasps haunt the honey-pot,' they say,
  Or 'Put your hand into a wasps' nest,' thus
  Neatly condensing all report for us
  By sharp experience into wisdom stung,
  As is the proverb's way.

    _Of many a man it might be said
    No one loved him till he was dead,
    But of a wasp not even then
    As it is said of many men._

  Dug by nocturnal badger from his nest;
  Branded, as though by his own stripes, a pest;
  Every man's hand against him, every dog
  Snapping mid-air with fine heraldic leap
  Between a summer sleep and summer sleep
  On drowsy, drenched, and lotus afternoon
  When peaches ripen and the ring-doves croon.

  So let me write the wasp his apologue
  In blend of hatred, wonder, and of jest;
  That moral fable never told
  Of little Satan in his black and gold,
  His coat of tigerskin;
  Fastened, a close, a dreamy glutton lover
  Drinking late fig and later nectarine.
  Let me discover
  Some evil beauty in his striped array,
  Bad angel of the winged air-borne tribe,
  And have the honour of his earliest scribe.

  Evil he is; to him was evil given
  If evil be within our judgment, when
  We seek to sift the purposes of heaven.
  Exquisite wasp! that our fine fruit devours,
  His taste at least as elegant as ours.
  And if he should not strike at meddling men
  Why did his Maker arm him with a sting?

  He's small, he's vicious, he's an easy prey;
  With greater skill our ingenuity
  Kills with one crack so intricate a thing;
  So difficult to make, beyond our powers.
  Man can make man, but there his cunning ends;
  That necessary act he can dispatch
  As Nature urges, launching out a batch
  Of new descendants, rivals, precious friends,
  But not an insect subtle on the wing.
  Oh Man! now mark:
  Could you send out one moth upon the dark,
  One bat, one delicate bat, that senses wide
  The threads of cotton on his passage tied,
  One butterfly with wings ornate
  As Byzantine mosaics, flitterling
  That in your chimney has the wit to hide
  All Winter through, until
  With your first sick-room fire, when you are ill
  And call for solace of the genial grate,
  He with still slothful wings descends
  From that dark, sooty gloom
  Into the warmth of your close room
  To flutter on your window-panes and twitch
  The ears of sleepy cur
  Happily stretched along your hearth, with bitch
  Softly domestic, curved against his fur.
  Could you make these?  Oh no.  But you can kill.

  So let me grant the hated wasp his due,
  He showed me beauty where I had not thought
  Beauty to find.  He drove me out with torch
  To seek among pale leaves at darkest night
  Pale grapes on sculptured porch,
  Hanging from column and from architrave
  In classical festoon,
  Aquamarine, a cave
  Of strangest green in that strange light,
  And this was beauty.  Thanks to him, that knave,
  All thanks to him, I sought
  The rosy rondure of the moonlit peach
  So stilly heavy on her slender twig,
  Too often out of reach
  So left for him to whom I much forgave;
  All thanks to him, I found the Ischian fig
  Yellowing in September's yellow moon,
  Or Turkey fig burst open to reveal
  Mediterranean flesh of Homer's wine-dark sea.
  Such nights could indignation much anneal;
  I had not seen such fine, such lovely sights
  On deeply private nights
  But for his mischief in the end my weal.
  Much did he take, but more gave back to me.

  So stay your hand, your condemnation stay:
  Even the wasp, like dog, must have his day,
  And as I know that Shakespeare, country lad
  Pocketing Venus and Adonis, might
  Pocket a Warwick lane, with woodbine, snail,
  And turn it all towards a Roman tale
  Or else a Belmont and Venetian night,
  So do I think that country lad
  So English-sane, so universal-mad,
  Had wasps in mind, when he of rascal thieves
  Wrote, that go suck the subtle blood of the grape.
  These were no alien or Athenian thieves;
  They were the wasps on plums on Stratford walls.
  He stung his fingers, stealing ripened fruit,
  No mine or thine,
  A schoolboy's loot;
  He was a boy, and took his boyish shape
  Of mind into his verse, as poets do,
  Using small instances to make a line.

  And let me end upon a note of hope
  For persecuted wasp, so neat, so fine,
  That in sarcastic verse I thus enshrine:
  It was a wasp that in a glass of wine
  Once killed a Pope.

  So passes Summer, still without one brief
  Respite from labour, simply to enjoy;
  Never that empty moment of relief
  When every task is done, no urgent ploy.
  Martha not Mary bustles to her chares
  Living, not saying, her creative prayers.

  Save when some cause must interrupt the fret
  And force the contemplative blessed spell
  When Martha's garden turns to Mary's cell,
  And Martha must her diligence forget.
  No cell enclosed, but open to the broad
  Vision that knows no wall of time or stone,
  When scattered notes resolve into a chord;
  The cell where visionary eyes may dwell
  On images their own, yet not their own;
  Alone, yet less than in companionship alone.

    _Green vine-shade; sweet airs breathe; leaves lift;
    Tendrils in tenderest of shadows drift.
    Dog, on the dappled ground your dappled body lay.
    Black sun, black humble-bees, black grapes;
    Slim carven columns wreathed in vine;
    My little world of gently stirring shapes;
    Summer, the corn's last standing day._

    _I'm ill; my body is not mine.
    My mind is more than mine, and lifts astray
    Up with the leaves, as light as they.
    No Thought, but Being; rarest idleness.
    Princes, for all I care, may ride away.
    I suffer nothing but the air's caress._

    _Yet in this flute-note shadowed melody
    A new companion shares my loneliness:
    Some stranger in myself, alone with me._

  For our life is terribly private in the end,
  In the last resort;
  And if our self's a stranger, what's a friend?
  A pretty children's game of let's pretend!
  We can share nor the puzzle nor the grief,
  Neither the physical nor mental pain,
  The insecurity, the fears insane ...
  How fortunate, that life should be so brief!

    _Yet I arise again, and very loth
      Leave that sweet spell of sloth.
    Perhaps the better part, to dream and gaze
      And some Creator praise
    For bounty that we nothing did to earn,
      And rest content
    With green beneath the leaves' translucent tent
      In woods wherein the fern
    Uncurls her crosier where the moss is wet
      And the wild violet
    Smokes blue along the pack-way in a haze._

    _All strangely come, with nothing due to man.
      Not his, that perfect plan.
    He measures out the stars he could not make,
      He names the sliding snake,
    But walks, a witling in the world he owns.
      For all his skill
    He fashioned not the Lenten daffodil,
      Nor set between the stones
    Gentians by running water in the peat,
      Nor sent the fleet
    Of water-lilies sailing on the lake._

    _His art is imitation, and with love
      On nature to improve.
    The necessary fool has learnt to see
      A better model, free
    From labour, lavish in conceit, a wealth
      Without a fence,
    Plenteous fancy, varied difference,
      Where he may rob by stealth
    Invention's plunder, since the woods more wise
      Offer his eyes
    A garden at the foot of every tree._

  Now shall the sharpened and well-oiled shears
  Be lifted from their shelf and put to use
  On the year's growth of hedges, too profuse.
  Order and comeliness must be restored
  (Nature the wanton lady, Man the Lord),
  As through the weeks the trimmer perseveres,
  Leaving with sigh all other jobs for this,
  Seeing his borders flounder, seeing new
  Weed that, neglected, sportively appears;
  But still must drudge on urgent artifice
  With aching arms and spine that will not bend
  When evening comes, till hedges are abhorred
  And stretch in nightmare miles, set end to end.

  Whether the twiggy hornbeam or the beech,
  The quick, the holly, or the lime to pleach,
  Or little box, or gravity of yew
  Cut into battlements to frame a view
  Before the frost can harm the wounded tips,
  Throughout the days he trims and clips and snips,
  As must the guardian of the child correct
  Distorted growth and tendencies to wrong,
  Suppress the weakness, countenance the strong,
  Shaping through craft and patience of the years
  Into a structure seemly, firm, erect,
  Batter and buttress, furious gales to scorn.
  He is both gardener and architect
  Working in detail on his walls and piers
  Of green anatomy, his garden's frame,
  Design his object, shapeliness his aim,
  Yet, practical, will with big gloves protect
  His hands against the blister and the thorn.

  Plant not the vulgar privet, to your shame,
  Nor laurel far less noble than its name,
  Lost to reminder of the Pythian game;
  Nor macrocarpa, cheap, and evergreen,
  And fast in growth, until some searing day
  Of Winter turns it dead and bracken-brown
  With nothing left to do but cut it down,
  That cypress wrongly called of Monterey.
  How wrongly!  I have seen
  At Monterey where sand is silver-clean
  And the Pacific azure to Cathay
  And nothing passes but a passing ship,
  That different tree upon its moon-white strand,
  Twisted and dark, alone with sea and sand.
  Strange coast, strange tree upon its chosen strip
  Of the available world, this edge of land.

  Not only on those narrow miles apart
  It grows, but travels in the stricken heart
  Of those who learnt its beauty in a brief
  Vision, and kept it as a constant fief.

  Plant box for edging; do not heed the glum
  Advice of those unthinking orthodox
  Gardeners who condemn the tidy box
  As haven for the slug, through winter numb.
  Slugs will find shelter, box or nany box,
  Therefore plant straightly, and with August come
  Clip neatly (you may also clip in May
  If time allow, a double yearly trim
  To make your edging thicker and more prim,)
  And in the scent of box on genial day
  When sun is warm as seldom in this isle,
  Smell something of the South, as clippings pile
  Beneath your tread, like aromatic spray
  Strewn down the paving of cathedral aisle
  On pagan-Christian feast-day, for the feet
  Of the devout to crush, who know not what they do
  Save that they breathe an air both sharp and sweet.

  Or as in some old hall, where dogs abound,
  Sniffing for bones across the littered ground,
  Herbs pungent mixed with wood-smoke and with peat,
  The rosemary, the tansy, and the rue.

  So for your garden choose the lavish best;
  Impatience and a false economy
  Never made value yet, so gravely plant
  Even the slowest and the costliest
  And wait for the reward the years will grant.
  Consider those who, selfless, placidly
  Thought for the future and themselves endured
  Vistas of sticks, absurd, in formal line,
  That should be leafy avenues, matured.
  Le Notre saw a skeleton design,
  Content if but the future were assured.

  Aristocrat of hedges, noble yew!
  Our English cypress, feudal, stately, dark,
  Nurtured on blood of bullocks, patriarch,
  Whether in venerable avenue
  Or single on the road, a pilgrim's mark.
  Ancestral yew! yet fain to fantasy,
  Lending its dignity
  To such caprice as takes the gardener's mind,
  In topiary elaborate
  Of Pliny's Tuscan villa, or the state
  Of royal palace and of country-seat,
  Tortured to such conceit
  As chessmen, dragons, elephants resigned
  To carry howdahs; obelisk most neat,
  Pyramids mocking Egypt, cannon-balls
  For ever static on their verdant walls;
  Or crownd queen upon an arm-chair throne;
  No natural growth, but vaunted specimen,
  Ingenious and laborious feat
  Of many slavish gardeners of rich men
  That thus through years the patient yew maltreat.

  Only, an echo at the cottage-gate
  In simple drollery diverts the hind.
  He nothing knows of Pliny, nor what great
  Topiary tradition lies behind.
  He only knows that when his work is done
  For others, and he turns towards his own,
  He will indulge his serious sense of fun;
  Will train a pheasant sitting on her eggs,
  A homely kettle, with a proper spout;
  The things he knows: a stool on three thin legs;
  A pig, a silent pig, in dark dark green,
  Such as in pigstye never yet was seen;
  And as his children watch and prance and shout
  "Father! make grow a ring within his snout,"
  He grins, and ably twists some wire and twine
  To turn his pig into a porcupine.
  Soon will his pheasant fly from off her nest,
  His kettle pour....  He jests.  I also jest.

  But yew, that prince, that poet of our trees
  That to our humour docile condescends
  And in fantastic shapes both twists and leans,
  (As Shakespeare gave the groundlings comic scenes
  Of clowns and knock-about,
  And would not scorn to please
  His simple countrymen, his lowly friends,
  Yet carried them in magic and alarm
  Into unearthly regions, to draw breath
  So rarified, they wondered what was near,
  What strange suggestion, what strange hand and arm
  Reached out to touch them from the haunts of fear,
  What cipher written in what shibboleth,
  What depths of shadow, chasms of the soul,
  Translated on to variegated scroll
  Now wise, now mad, now colourless, now gay,
  All life, and that beyond, which we call death,)
  So does the yew, the architectural yew,
  In sombre mood or freakish match our day.
  By moonlight it but tells us what we knew,
  That all is tenebrous, uncertain, lit
  In fitful patches mingled with the gloom
  More beautiful because indefinite:
  The chamber of the day or of the tomb?
  The moonlight falls deceptive: who can say?

  Yet the strong daylight makes the yew a grove,
  A very temple of retreat or love,
  Suggestive shadows richly ambient.
  Then will such arbours charm the musing mind,
  Or stone-flagged path, significantly straight,
  The pacing footstep, as, with head inclined,
  The scholar, the philosopher, the lover,
  In endless up-and-down may strictly rove,
  Patrolling sentry thinking out his fate,
  And some new regulated truth discover,
  Some allegorical solution find
  In geometrical restriction held;
  Passions enclosed, their bursting nature pent
  Between the calming linear walls confined,
  Gently rebuked and tolerantly quelled.

  This is the tranquil, ancient, wise, sedate
  Counsellor yew, not briskly eloquent
  But, to the listener, with much to say;
  As much as glades that whisper in a wood
  But neater and more orderly than they.
  But if in lighter mood
  You would plant hedges, think upon the gay
  Frivolous boundaries that toss their spray
  In colour on beholden air.
  Seemingly wild, yet not too wild, too rough;
  An art in wildness, even in the bluff
  And thorny branches of the hedgerow May,
  Red, rose, or white; or in the cloudy puff
  Of ceanothus, blue and powdery;
  Or hedge of roses, growing devil-care,
  --Rose of the World; th' embroidered Tuscany;
  The scented Cabbage, and the Damascene;
  Sweet-briar, lovelier named the eglantine;
  But above all the Musk
  With classic names, Thisbe, Penelope,
  Whose nectarous load grows heavier with the dusk
  And like a grape too sweetly muscadine.

  So let invention riot.  Dare
  Th' unorthodox; be always bold; be prince;
  This is your realm; let fancy flaunt and flare;
  Fail if you must, outrageous heretic,
  But gloriously fail: the dream, the brag,
  No prudent prose, but lyric rhetoric.

  So for your hedges plant the tossing quince,
  Cydonia many-coloured as a flag,
  In sentimental Apple-Bloom, full-blown,
  Or Knaphill Scarlet, wrongly named, that rag
  Coral not scarlet, flown
  Startling against a sky as gray as stone;
  Or, deep as a Venetian robe outspread
  Against a cottage wall, the veteran Red.

  Or plant in jewelled swagger, twin with use,
  Myrobolans, prolific cherry-plum,
  Topaz and ruby, where the bees may hum
  In early blossom, and, with Summer come,
  Children and wasps dispute the wealth of juice.
  Level your hedge by pruning to the spur,
  But here and there, at intervals designed,
  Let a strong tree go up in loftier
  Canopy hung with fruit, a spreading cry,
  As from the tedious level of mankind
  Once in a generation rise the high
  Lanterns of the imaginative mind.

  And since the garden's backbone is the Hedge
  Shaping to seemly order, set it square,
  Not in weak curves that half deny the pledge
  Given to pattern in intent austere.
  Gardens should be romantic, but severe.
  Strike your strong lines, and take no further care
  Of such extravagance as pours the rose
  In wind-blown fountains down the broken walls,
  In gouts of blood, in dripping flower-falls,
  Or flings the jasmine where the walls enclose
  Separate garths, a miniature surprise.
  Marry excess to an adroit repose,
  With no confusion of a plan so clear
  It speaks its outline to the mind and eyes,
  Instant, intelligible, and sincere,
  As should be, seldom is, the life of man.

  And set the axis of your garden plan
  In generous vistas reaching to a bourn
  Far off, yet visible, a certain term
  Definite as ambition, and as firm;
  Stopped by a statue or a little urn
  Cut to contain the ashes of a stern
  Roman (the ruin of his villa lies
  Buried beneath the barley, near our coast.)

  That small sarcophagus, that nameless shrine
  Set in a square-cut niche of yew, alone,
  So shadowy it breeds the curly fern,
  Shall speak for the male Roman, dead but strong,
  The salutary necessary ghost.
  Let the nymph stand for beauty's token sign,
  Slanting her head beneath her wreath of stone,
  About to clash her cymbals, always mute;
  With elbow crook'd and one suggestive hand
  Ready to drop towards her loosened zone;
  Glancing towards the Roman, wistfully,
  As ever in a profitless pursuit
  Beauty shall beckon to mortality.

  And these shall be your symbols; let them stand
  Looking at one another down the long
  Grave path you planned as not your life you planned.

  But if so rarely fortunate you be
  That God runs water through your English home,
  River or brook, or little pricking spring,
  Remember how the fountains play in Rome.
  Enforce the most from this most living thing.
  The lark has not a finer, sweeter song
  Than drips of water, orient as pearl,
  In moon-laid ovals dropped upon a rock
  Splashing through night and day, eternally,
  Regular as the ticking of a clock
  But with a loveliness no clock of time
  Might ever tell, or quarters ever chime.

  And if your river yet more wildly swirl
  Set your quiescent nymph beside it; dip
  Her foot within the water; let her look
  Across the separation of the brook
  Towards her soldier where the ferns unfold
  In green that later turns to bracken-gold;
  Even as on her nape the pearl and curl
  Cluster against the bending of her head
  So virginal, so tender, and so sweet
  It seems a lover's kiss must falter there
  Amongst the tendrils of her volute hair
  In subtler kiss than kiss on parting lip;

  Yet by their nature they may never meet
  Since she is marble, and her soldier dead.

  Water is living; water springs from earth,
  Whether from mountains poured in melting stream
  Or risen in the stones, a bubbling birth
  Struck by some Moses from a sombre dream,
  Some Pisgah vision, some divining-rod
  That finds in rock the hidden hint of God.
  Water is living; water tells its tale,
  Its legendary music; coots and swans
  Swim to the summons in their various plume,
  Olive as water glossy in the gloom,
  Blue-white as sumptuous as mountain snows
  Sun-smitten where the sources first arose,
  --The high land paramount, the low land paravail,--
  And circle at that bidding, dark or pale,
  Around the pool, explore the little creek,
  And delicately drink with dipping beak
  The silver water from the urn of bronze.




  Autumn



  Autumn in felted slipper shuffles on,
  Muted yet fiery,--Autumn's character.
  Brown as a monk yet flaring as a whore,
  And in the distance blue as Raphael's robe
  Tender around the Virgin.
                           Blue the smoke
  Drifting across brown woods; but in the garden
  Maples are garish, and surprising leaves
  Make sudden fires with sudden crests of flame
  Where the sun hits them; in the deep-cut leaf
  Of peony, like a mediaeval axe
  Of rusty iron; fervour of azalea
  Whose dying days repeat her June of flower;
  In Sargent's cherry, upright as a torch
  Till ravelled sideways by the wind to stream
  Disorderly, and strew the mint of sparks
  In coins of pointed metal, cooling down;
  And that true child of Fall, whose morbid fruit
  Ripens, with walnuts, only in November,
  The Medlar lying brown across the thatch;
  Rough elbows of rough branches, russet fruit
  So blet it's worth no more than sleepy pear,
  But in its motley pink and yellow leaf
  A harlequin that some may overlook
  Nor ever think to break and set within
  A vase of bronze against a wall of oak,
  With Red-hot Poker, Autumn's final torch.

  The medlar and the quince's globe of gold.
  How rich and fat those yellow fruits do hang!
  They were light blossom once, a light-foot girl,
  All cream and muslin once, now turned to age
  Mellow with fine experience.  The sun
  Burnt in one season what the years must need
  For a girl's ripening.  He was the lover
  In dilatory half-awakened Spring;
  He was the husband of the fruitful Summer,
  Father of pregnancy that brings those fruits
  Ready to drop at the first touch of hand
  Carefully lifting at the parting stalk,
  Or at the first wild breath of wind, so soft
  You think it harmless, till it blows the vanes
  Crooked this way and that, a treacherous wind
  Bringing the apples down before their date.

  All's brown and red: the robin and the clods,
  And umber half-light of the potting-shed,
  The terra-cotta of the pots, the brown
  Sacking with its peculiar autumn smell,
  Musty in corners, where the cobweb panes
  Filter the sun, to bronze the patient heaps
  Of leaf-mould, loam, and tan of wholesome peat;
  And sieves that orderly against the wall
  Dangle from nail, with all the panoply
  (Brightened by oily rag) of shining tools,
  The gardener's armour, pewter as a lake,
  And good brown wood in handles and in shafts;
  Plump onion and thin bassen raffia
  Slung from the rafters where the ladders prop.

  And in the gloom, with his slow gesture, moves
  The leathern demiurge of this domain,
  Like an old minor god in corduroy
  Setting and picking up the things he needs,
  Deliberate as though all Time were his.
  Honour the gardener! that patient man
  Who from his schooldays follows up his calling,
  Starting so modestly, a little boy
  Red-nosed, red-fingered, doing what he's told,
  Not knowing what he does or why he does it,
  Having no concept of the larger plan.
  But gradually, (if the love be there,
  Irrational as any passion, strong,)
  Enlarging vision slowly turns the key
  And swings the door wide open on the long
  Vistas of true significance.  No more
  Is toil a vacant drudgery, when purport
  Attends each small and conscientious task,
  --As the stone-mason setting yard by yard
  Each stone in place, exalting not his gaze
  To measure growth of structure or assess
  That slow accomplishment, but in the end
  Tops the last finial and, stepping back
  To wipe the grit for the last time from eyes,
  Sees that he built a temple,--so the true
  Born gardener toils with love that is not toil
  In detailed time of minutes, hours, and days,
  Months, years, a life of doing each thing well;
  The Life-line in his hand not rubbed away
  As you might think, by constant scrape and rasp,
  But deepened rather, as the line of Fate,
  By earth imbedded in his wrinkled palm;
  A golden ring worn thin upon his finger,
  A signet ring, no ring of human marriage,
  On that brown hand, dry as a crust of bread,
  A ring that in its circle belts him close
  To earthly seasons, and in its slow thinning
  Wears out its life with his.

  That hand, that broke with tenderness and strength
  Clumps of the primrose and the primula,
  Watched by a loving woman who desired
  Such tenderness and strength to hold her close,
  And take her passionate giving, as he held
  His broken plants and set them in the ground,
  New children; but he had no thought of her.
  She only stood and watched his capable hand
  Brown with the earth and golden with the ring,
  And knew her part was small in his lone heart.

  So comes he at the last to that long Paradise
  Where grateful Pharaoh hews a mountain tomb
  For the good gardener, the faithful slave,
  (Slave not of royalty, but his own piety,)
  Painting the vaulted roof of that deep cave
  With fresco of imperishable fruit
  Such as no earthly gardener ever grew,
  Pale peaches and pale grapes, so healthy-heavy
  Yet slung from tendrils of a filament
  Too weak to bear a locust's weight.  He sleeps,
  No pest, no canker troubling that deep sleep,
  Under the pattern that he scarce divined.

  Such gardeners we have known.  We cannot cut
  Sepulchres in the mountains, on a butt
  Of stone within the Valley of the Kings
  In the perennial sunshine of the Nile
  To do them honour.  Such extravagant things
  Are not within the scope of our cheap style.
  To do them honour we can only give
  On paper, not papyrus, not on rock
  Graven, the simplest words in epitaph
  To make their courage and their memory live.
  So will I write for one fine gardener
  Who died too young, caught up in folly's flock,
  This epitaph of gratitude, in grief
  That he, who so loved life, found life so brief.

    _He had the love of plants, the eager eyes,
    The tender fingers, and the neatest skill.
    English, he told me how he longed to see
    Our garden flowers on their native hill
    Before he died.  He thought that life was long..._

    _Now he has seen them, as in flames he fell
    Downwards towards the steep Illyrian cleft
    And caught their colour lit by flames of Hell._

    _God grant, he never thought his fate was wrong;
    God grant, he had a vision of the gift
    Of his desire, by danger sanctified;
    God grant, he saw in one last moment's rift
    That carpet spread beneath him as he died._

  Move onward, Life; we cannot stop to grieve.
  The seed demands the soil, that it may live;
  This mystery of contact, strange, devout
  In union, as the general scheme of love.
  See, in our careful hoard of leaf-mould, sprout
  Chestnuts from conkers, little pallid leaf
  Of beech from mast, from acorn little oak,
  Each in their germination hopefully
  Intent on growing to a forest tree;
  Close consequence that seed and soil provoke!
  Each to his kind, majestic or minute,
  Following unaware but resolute
  The pre-ordained plan
  That makes an oak, a daisy, or a man.

  So at the potting-bench we play the part
  Of gods, and at our humour give
  Life's opportunity as we decree.
  Flattering power! when our studied art
  Dragoons unruly Nature to our hand.
  Toss infant oaks aside, and through the sieve
  Pass virgin loam and leaf-mould, mixed with sand,
  Open and sharp and rich, where seedlings start
  Astonished into life, and safely stand
  The winter through; or in the open drill
  Sow hardier seeds, that from the Winter's ill
  Grow more robust and ready for the sweet
  Lenience of the Spring when days expand;
  As the poor orphan that the Fates maltreat
  Toughens uncoddled in the frost, the sleet,
  Expecting nothing else from world unkind
  Where he who lives not, dies;
  But at the first soft touch awakes to throw
  Blossoms of thankfulness in wild surprise
  Such different aspect of the world to find,
  And in the kiss of sun forgets the snow.

  So Autumn's not the end, not the last rung
  Of any ladder in the yearly climb,
  When that is deathly old which once was young,
  Since time's no ladder but a constant wheel
  Like an old paddled mill that dips and churns
  The mill-race, and upon the summit turns
  Unceasingly to heel
  Over, and scoop fresh water out of time.

  Autumn's a preparation for renewal,
  Yet not entirely shorn
  Of tardy beauty, last and saddest jewel
  Bedizening where it may not adorn.
  Few of the autumn blooms are deeply dear,
  Lacking the spirit volatile and chaste
  That blows across the ground when pied appear
  The midget sweets of Spring, and in their haste
  The vaporous trees break blossom pale and clear,
  --Carpet and canopy, together born.

  Stalwarts of Autumn lack that quality;
  Only the little frightened cyclamen
  With leveret ears laid back look fresh and young,
  Or those pure chalices that Kentish men
  Call Naked Boys, but by a lovelier name
  Others call Naked Ladies, slender, bare,
  Dressed only in their amethystine flame,
  The Meadow Saffron magically sprung
  By dawn in morning orchards in the grass
  Near paths where shepherds on their errand pass
  But ender-night beheld no crocus-colour there.

  These in the sodden season (unaware
  That in their fragile temper they belong
  Rightly to Spring and to the early song
  Of birds that in September's April days
  Bring music back to fill the empty air
  And knot the fugue into the final phrase
  Repetitive, and with a looping thong
  Coil round our hearts prepared to weep
  Their valedictory tears
  Over the irrecoverable years,
  Over lost youth, lost hope, and that fine leap
  Vaulting all obstacle of doubts and fears,
  Strong, confident, excited, and inspired
  By youth's divine unwisdom, never tired
  And never longing for the final sleep,)
  These in their sudden springing and their youth
  Restore the ecstasy that once we took for truth.

  So in September when a day of rain
  Holds up your outdoor work, make gain
  Out of your seeming loss; devote
  A morning to those bleaker days remote
  Of January through to March as bleak
  When flow'rs are few to find and cold to seek,
  (The hellebore, bespattered with the mud;
  The daring primrose meek
  Hiding beside the little brook in flood
  Come long before her time;
  The winter aconite that gilds the rime
  Between the spillikins of grass;
  The jasmine sprays that in a fountain fall,)
  These with cold fingers picked and brought
  Under the lamplight in a pool of small
  Surprising colour, tabled in a glass,
  Dearer because so difficultly sought,
  Miniature triumphs rescued from the storm,
  --These shall be supplemented by your thought
  Prophetic, while September yet is warm.

  Pack the dark fibre in the potter's bowl;
  Set bulbs of hyacinth and daffodil,
  Jonquil and crocus, (bulbs both sound and whole,)
  Narcissus and the blue Siberian squill.
  Set close, but not so tight
  That flow'ring heads collide as months fulfil
  Their purpose, and in generous sheaf expand
  Obedient to th' arrangement of your hand.
  Yours is the forethought, yours the sage control.

  Keep the too eager bulbs from ardent light;
  Store in a gloomy cupboard, not too chill;
  Give grateful moisture to the roots unseen,
  And wait until the nose of bleached shoot
  Pushes its inches up, in evidence
  That many worms of root
  Writhe whitely down to fill
  The darkness of the compost, tangled, dense.
  Then may you set your bowls on window sill
  And smile to see the pallor turn to green.
  Fat, pregnant, solid horns, that overnight
  Swell into buds, and overnight again
  Explode in colour, morning's sudden stain,
  In long succession, nicely planned between
  Epiphany and Easter, if so be
  Easter falls early and the window-pane
  Still shows the fine the crisp anatomy
  Of fern-like frosted frond,
  And nothing in the waiting soil beyond.

  But in October, later, shall you stand
  With paper sack of bulbs and plunge your hand
  And careless fling your bulbs both large and small
  To roll, to topple, settling sparse or thick,
  Over the grass, and plant them where they fall,
  (Legitimate device, a sanctioned trick.)
  Thus in a drift as though by Nature planned
  Snowdrops shall blow in spreading tide,
  Little white horses breaking on the strand
  At edge of orchard; and the orange-eyed
  Narcissus of the poets in a wide
  Lyrical river flowing as you pass
  Meandering along the path of grass.

  Their names are little poems in themselves:
  Grand Soleil d'Or, great golden sun,
  Earliest in its gift, with Winter Gold.
  Their very names are Light, when days are dun.
  Seagull, and Sunrise,--are they sailing-ships?
  What Golden Spur pricked Fortune and Desire?
  What Queen of Spain was loved by Sweet Adare?
  What Emperor kissed Roxana on the lips?

  Yet Autumn calls for courage, as the end
  Of all things calls for courage,--love or life;
  Seldom with clean-cut slicing of the knife,
  But a slow petering, a dismal droop,
  As browning asters tied into a group
  No lovelier than a birch-broom, in a head
  Soggy, and dank, and very nearly dead.
  Then in such days the flame of faith is low;
  Spring is far off, and in the Winter dread
  Most tepidly and cowardly we go.

    _My mood is like a fire that will not heat;
    There's touchwood, and a chequer-board of peat;
    The sturdy logs laid ready, sere and dry;
    The match-box, and the chimney swept and high;
    There's all the setting for a roar of flame
    But love and poetry are but a name,
    And neither will my fuel burn, nor I._

    _Flame of my hearth, a grizzled heap of ash;
    Flame of my heart, turned trumpery and trash.
    Did I live once? did once my timber flare?
    Did I dare all that now I do not dare?
    Did once I kindle, leap, lick high, scorch, blaze,
    In splendid arson of my reckless days?
    I, smothered clinker, cold and un-aware?_

    _Get hence, damp mood, as musty as the shroud,
    Such sulky torpor suits no spirit proud;
    Come, flame; come, tongue of courage; scorch me, sear;
    I'll risk the burning to regain the clear
    Fangs of returning life as sharp as fire.
    Better, I swear, to be consumed entire
    Than smoulder, knowing neither zest nor fear._

  Then, in a sudden spurt revived, I cry
  As both my mood and litten fire burn high,
    _Oh Days, be double!  Hours, be forty-eight!
    Oh Time, be rathe for once, instead of late!
    Oh Sun, stand still!  Oh Moon, neglect to rise!
    Oh Daylight, dilly-dally in the skies!_

    _Oh life too rich, oh years too fleet, too fleet,
    Oh simple thought, that going youth is sweet!
    Was never felt such truth-in-platitude
    Till rapid rush of our incertitude._

    _Not the white hairs, but oh the end, the end!
    The little that we know, the love, the friend,
    The room, the garden path, the day's affairs,
    The movements of the heart, the joys, despairs._

    _Oh bolting Time, rough pony of my days,
    Halt by the hedgerow of my life to graze.
    Halt but an hour; there's pulse as strong as mine,
    There's herbage still, there's ramage, vetch, and bine._

    _Halt, and consider as you wildly go:
    I am the only thing I truly know,
    My extant life my only episode;
    Your rattling course completes my only road,_

    _The only chapter of my narrative.
    My verb is still in the indicative.
    Oh years gone by! oh years still going past
    In wild crescendo, fast and ever fast
    Like some mad back-cloth scenes that, worked at speed,
    Drawn backwards in their prospect still recede,
    And I, oh God! not ready yet to live._

  Now the dark yew, that sombre secret soul,
  Bears fruit, more coral than our ugly blood;
  Bright wax within the green, a tallow stud
  Most exquisite in substance and in form,
  Strewn by the birds and by the soft wild storm
  In sprinkled carpet underneath the bays
  Of taxine carpentry, these autumn days.

  The breeze that autumn night was hot and south.
  I met a frog that carried in his mouth
  One of those berries, on unknown intent.
  So brisk, so earnest, in his ranine hurry,
  I stood aside to let him take his bent.
  He had his right to's life as I to mine;
  I had my right to my descriptive line,
  He had his right to his more precious berry.
  I stopped, he hopped, I watched him where he went.
  He had no fear of me and could not doubt
  What love I had for him, that blebbed and queer
  Visitant from the woodland mere
  Who, gaudy with his berry sticking out,
  Met me beneath the cavern of the porch
  As we were meant to meet,
  --Miniature monster circled at my feet
  Within the coin of my miraculous torch.

  He lowly, and the architectural porch so tall,
  But he, in his way, also a miracle.

  Gone in the morning, but nocturnal yew
  Bore evidence of writing in the night,
  Somnambulistic poems, fine and light,
  Glistering webs down the long avenue,
  Hammocks of fancy, geometric maze,
  A spell that never might a poet write.
  These mushroom days, these moist and misty days
  When the drenched grass looks heavy with the dew
  And all the distance shrouded into shapes
  Dimly divined, the ghost of what we knew,
  Solid with apples hanging in the haze,
  Red as a smaller sun, and nearer to our gaze;
  And on the rosy walls the greening grapes
  And pears already sleepy with their weight.
  Brambles turn black, the little sloe turns blue,
  Dark in the heraldry of Autumn's state,
  And by high undern staring in amaze
  We cry "The sun has come through! the sun is through!"

  There reigns a rusty richness everywhere;
  See the last orange roses, how they blow
  Deeper and heavier than in their prime,
  In one defiant flame before they go;
  See the red-yellow vine leaves, how they climb
  In desperate tangle to the upper air;
  So might a hoyden gipsy toss and throw
  A scarf across her disobedient hair.
  See the last zinnias, waiting for the frost,
  The deadly touch, the crystals and the rime,
  Intense of colour, violent, extreme,
  Loud as a trumpet lest a note be lost
  In blackened death that nothing can redeem;
  They make the most of moments that remain,
  And with the florid dahlia, ruddy stain,
  Endorse the sun-clock's motto, sour and plain:
  THE WHOLE OF LIFE IS BUT A POINT OF TIME.

  See the red dogwood, lacquered by the rain.
  That's tough, that's savage, that will stand the strong
  Usage of Winter till the Spring again
  Clothe with less lovely leaf its Indian vein.
  But through the days too short and nights too long
  Slow damage works, as age upon our span,
  Damping or withering the clumps of green,
  Wet bundles now of sad and sodden tan.
  How tall they were, how quick of growth, how keen,
  How bravely they began,
  How bravely met the full meridian
  Challenge of high young life, that now are brown,
  Dirty with waning bindweed and with vetch
  At year's end as at last we cut them down,
  Playing the part of death, that soon ourselves will fetch.

  (Yet, for a moment, in these dying days,
  St. Luke will bring his little Summer, when
  Faith may restore the tired hearts of men,
  Ready to doubt but readier to believe.
  Oh sweet St. Luke, so happy to deceive!
  Evangelist, he brushes with his pen
  A golden light in strokes of golden rays
  From Heaven fanning down upon the maize
  Strewn through the dust-motes to the pheasants, in
  The orchard where the yaffle and the jays
  Streak a bright feather as they take to wing.
  And as in February hints of Spring
  Cozen us into courage, so this late
  Golden revival, in a last reprieve,
  May stay the hour to wait,
  As in the shadows Death
  Slides back the moving sword within the sheath.)

    _The faded spinster, soft in gray,
    Bends to the old romantic stone;
    She reads the words that kindly say
    'The heart not always lived alone.'
    Set in her flowers of today
    The dial speaks of other flowers
    When she was prettier than they,
    And laughed at shadows and at showers,
    Knowing that sun succeeded rain,
    Being in love, and loved again,
    (That rare return of mortal gift,
    That rare, sweet closure of the rift
    When 'me and mine' is 'us and ours'.)_
      I NUMBER NONE BUT SUNNY HOURS.

    _She loves the motto with its dear
    Suggestion that all things are well;
    Within her heart it rings a clear
    Tinkle of sentimental bell.
    Others may heed the voice of fear,
    The wild least lurking in the lair,
    The heads that frightful may appear
    In floating masks upon the air;
    But not for her the line that saith_
    ONE HOUR WILL BE THE HOUR OF DEATH;
    _The graven words, too true, too plain,
    Too fraught with an alarm insane,
    And not for her the line too bare_
    That saith OF THE LAST HOUR BEWARE.

  BRIGHT SOL AND LUNA TIME AND TIDE DOTH HOLD;
  Bright Sol doth shine the dial with his gold,
  But the companion pencil slews a line
  In tortoise-travel, fatal, and so fine
  No thicker than a hair, a stroke of ink:
  IT IS ALREADY LATER THAN YOU THINK.

  THE SHADOW TEACHES, better than the light;
  The pilgrim hours go by, as thread by thread
  The moving pointer eats our little day
  Till it be eaten nearly all away
  And nothing left us but the final shred.
      AND HOW WE GO MAY SHADOW SHOW.
      SOONER OR LATER ALL MUST GO.

  Then comes reprieving night, forgetful sleep.
  Surely the gnomon's shadow cannot creep
  Across the dial in a dark so deep?
  Oh pitiable man, you have forgot the moon.
  What of the moon, that spectral sun of night,
  White shepherd of the tides and folded sheep?
  She is your orb of night-time, that may sweep
  Her midnight shadow as the shade of noon.
  You are not safe, by noon-day or by night;
  Light's dangerous, no safety is in light;
  Dark's dangerous, no safety is in night;
  No safety there, since the prescriptive moon
  Of lovers cuts our moments into slice
  Even in most romantic nights of June,
  And measures them in minutes too precise.

  She marks our passage, even as the sun,
  And in the waste of sleep our life is half-way done.
  So does the shadow of the cypress veer
  On terraces that meet the trysting moon;
  Great lawns or water, raven looking-glass,
  Shot-silk of crawling black and malachite
  Level and deep and dark.
  The liquid or the verdurous lagoon
  Deserted register the moving mark,
  The silent blade that scythes far more than grass,
  Noiseless, remorseless, and too cold to sear.
  Tenebrous transit, thieving hour and year
  The while we sleep, as though we were not here.
  Only the statue, mossed in ancient green,
  Eternal in her marble, sure, serene,
  Watches, or does not watch, with calm surmise
  Events that she has seen, or has not seen,
  Passing before her blind indifferent eyes.

  Low sinks the sun, and long the shadows fall.
  The sun-clock, faithful measurer of time,
  Fixed to man's dwelling on his flimsy wall
  Or tabled flat on curving pedestal
  Amongst his dying flowers, tells the last
  Hours of the year as to a funeral,
  With silent music, solemn and sublime.
  Now is the sunlight ebbing, faint and fast
  In intermittent gleams that seldom cut
  Throughout the day the quadrant of our fate
  With the slow stroke that says TOO SOON ... TOO LATE
  The stroke that turns our present to our past.
  BEWARE, THE OPEN GATE WILL SOON BE SHUT.

  November sun that latens with our age,
  Filching the zest from our young pilgrimage,
  Writing old wisdom on our virgin page.
  Not the hot ardour of the Summer's height,
  Not the sharp-minted coinage of the Spring
  When all was but a delicate delight
  And all took wing and all the bells did ring;
  Not the spare Winter, clothed in black and white,
  Forcing us into fancy's eremite,
  But gliding Time that slid us into gold
  Richer and deeper as we grew more old
  And saw some meaning in this dying day;
  Travellers of the year, who faintly say
  How could such beauty walk the common way?


  [Illustration: Autumn tailpiece]




  _Books by_
  V. SACKVILLE-WEST


  _Poetry_

  THE LAND
  KING'S DAUGHTER
  COLLECTED POEMS
  SOLITUDE

  _Biography and Criticism_

  THE EAGLE AND THE DOVE
  PEPITA
  ST. JOAN OF ARC
  ANDREW MARVELL
  APHRA BEHN

  _Travel_

  PASSENGER TO TEHERAN
  TWELVE DAYS

  _Miscellaneous_

  SOME FLOWERS
  COUNTRY NOTES
  COUNTRY NOTES IN WARTIME
  KNOLE AND THE SACKVILLES

  _Fiction_

  THE EDWARDIANS
  ALL PASSION SPENT
  GRAND CANYON






[End of The Garden, by V. Sackville-West]
