Читать книгу: «The Two Twilights», страница 2

AS YOU LIKE IT

 
Here while I read the light forsakes the pane;
Metempsychosis of the twilight gray —
Into green aisles of Epping or Ardenne
The level lines of print stretch far away.
 
 
The book-leaves whisper like the forest-leaves;
A smell of ancient woods, a breeze of morn,
A breath of violets from the mossy paths
And hark! the voice of hounds – the royal horn,
 
 
Which, muffled in the ferny coverts deep,
Utters the three sweet notes that sound recall;
As, riding two by two between the oaks,
Come on the paladins and ladies all.
 
 
The court will rest from chase in this smooth glade
That slopes to meet yon little rushy stream,
Where in the shallows nod the arrow-heads,
And the blue flower-de-luce's banners gleam.
 
 
The gamekeepers are coupling of the hounds;
The pages hang bright scarfs upon the boughs;
The new-slain quarry lies upon the turf
Whereon but now he with the herd did browse.
 
 
The silk pavilion shines among the trees;
The mighty pasties and the flagons strong
Give cheer to the dear heart of many a knight,
And many a dame whose beauty lives in song.
 
 
Meanwhile a staging improvised and rude
Rises, whereon the masquers and the mimes
Play for their sport a pleasant interlude,
Fantastic, gallant, pointing at the times.
 
 
Their green-room is the wide midsummer wood;
Down some far-winding gallery the deer —
The dappled dead-head of that sylvan show —
Starts as the distant ranting strikes his ear.
 
 
They use no traverses nor painted screen
To help along their naked, out-door wit:
(Only the forest lends its leafy scene)
Yet wonderfully well they please the pit.
 
 
The plaudits echo through the wide parquet
Where the fair audience upon the grass,
Each knight beside his lady-love, is set,
While overhead the merry winds do pass.
 
 
The little river murmurs in its reeds,
And somewhere in the verdurous solitude
The wood-thrush drops a cool contralto note,
An orchestra well-tuned unto their mood.
 
 
As runs the play so runs the afternoon;
The curtain and the sun fall side by side;
The epilogue is spoke, the twilight come;
Then homeward through the darkening glades they ride.
 

THE OLD CITY

 
Ancient city, down thy street
Minstrels make their music sweet;
Sound of bells is on the air,
Fountains sing in every square,
Where, from dawn to shut of day,
Maidens walk and children play;
And at night, when all are gone,
The waters in the dark sing on,
Till the moonrise and the breeze
Whiten the horse-chestnut trees.
Cool thou liest, leisured, slow,
On the plains of long ago,
All unvexed of fretful trades
Through thy rich and dim arcades,
Overlooking lands below
Terraced to thy green plateau.
 
 
Dear old city, it is long
Since I heard thy minstrels' song,
Since I heard thy church-bells deep,
Since I watched thy fountains leap.
Yet, whichever way I turn,
Still I see the sunset burn
At the ending of the street,
Where the chestnut branches meet;
Where, between the gay bazaars,
Maidens walk with eyes like stars,
And the slippered merchants go
On the pavements to and fro.
Upland winds blow through my sleep,
Moonrise glimmers, waters leap,
Till, awaking, thou dost seem
Like a city of a dream, —
Like a city of the air,
Builded high, aloof and fair, —
Such as childhood used to know
On the plains of long ago.
 

AMETHYSTS

 
Not the green eaves of our young woods alone
Shelter new violets, by the spring rains kissed;
In the hard quartz, by some old April sown,
Blossoms Time's flower, the steadfast amethyst.
 
 
"Here's pansies, they're for thoughts" – weak thoughts though fair;
June sees their opening, June their swift decay.
But those stone bourgeons stand for thoughts more rare,
Whose patient crystals colored day by day.
 
 
Might I so cut my flowers within the rock,
And prison there their sweet escaping breath;
Their petals then the winter's frost should mock,
And only Time's slow chisel work their death.
 
 
If out of those embedded purple blooms
Were quarried cups to hold the purple wine,
Greek drinkers thought the glorious, maddening fumes
Were cooled with radiance of that gem divine.
 
 
Might I so wed the crystal and the grape,
Passion's red heart and plastic Art's endeavor,
Delirium should take on immortal shape,
Dancing and blushing in strong rock forever.
 

KATY DID

 
In a windy tree-top sitting,
Singing at the fall of dew,
Katy watched the bats a-flitting,
While the twilight's curtains drew
Closer round her; till she only
Saw the branches and the sky —
Rocking late and rocking lonely,
Anchored on the darkness high.
And the song that she was singing,
In the windy tree-tops swinging,
Was under the tree, under the tree
The fox is digging a pit for me.
 
 
When the early stars were sparkling
Overhead, and down below
Fireflies twinkled, through the darkling
Thickets she heard footsteps go —
Voice of her false lover speaking,
Laughing to his sweetheart new: —
"Half my heart for thee I'm breaking:
Did not Katy love me true?"
Then no longer she was singing,
But through all the wood kept ringing —
Katy did, Katy did, Katy did love thee
And the fox is digging a grave for me.
 

NARCISSUS

 
Where the black hemlock slants athwart the stream
He came to bathe; the sun's pursuing beam
Laid a warm hand upon him, as he stood
Naked, while noonday silence filled the wood.
Holding the boughs o'erhead, with cautious foot
He felt his way along the mossy root
That edged the brimming pool; then paused and dreamed.
Half like a dryad of the tree he seemed,
Half like the naiad of the stream below,
Suspended there between the water's flow
And the green tree-top world; the love-sick air
Coaxing with softest touch his body fair
A little longer yet to be content
Outside of its own crystal element.
And he, still lingering at the brink, looked down
And marked the sunshine fleck with gold the brown
And sandy floor which paved that woodland pool.
But then, within the shadows deep and cool
Which the close hemlocks on the surface made,
Two eyes met his yet darker than that shade
And, shining through the watery foliage dim,
Two white and slender arms reached up to him.
"Comest thou again, now all the woods are still,
Fair shape, nor even Echo from the hill
Calls her Narcissus? Would her voice were thine,
Dear speechless image, and could answer mine!
Her I but hear and thee I may but see;
Yet, Echo, thou art happy unto me;
For though thyself art but a voice, sad maid,
Thy love the substance is and my love shade.
Alas! for never may I kiss those dumb
Sweet lips, nor ever hope to come
Into that shadow-world that lies somewhere —
Somewhere between the water and the air.
Alas! for never shall I clasp that form
That mocks me yonder, seeming firm and warm;
But if I leap to its embrace, the cold
And yielding flood is all my arms enfold.
All creatures else, save only me, can share
My beauties, be it but to stroke my hair,
Or hold my hand in theirs, or hear me speak.
The village wives will laugh and clap my cheek;
The forest nymphs will beg me for a kiss,
To make me blush, or hide themselves by this
Clear brook to see me bathe. But I must pine,
Loving not me but this dear ghost of mine."
Then, bending down the boughs, until they dipped
Their broad green fronds, into the wave he slipped,
And, floating breast-high, from the branches hung,
His body with the current idly swung.
And ever and anon he caught the gleam
Of a white shoulder swimming in the stream,
Pressed close to his, and two young eyes of black
Under the dimpling surface answered back
His own, just out of kissing distance: then
The vain and passionate longing came again
Still baffled, still renewed: he loosed his hold
Upon the boughs and strove once more to fold
To his embrace that fine unbodied shape;
But the quick apparition made escape,
And once again his empty arms took in
Only the water and the shadows thin.
Thus every day, when noon lay bright and hot
On all the plains, there came to this cool spot,
Under the hemlocks by the deepening brook,
Narcissus, Phoebus' darling, there to look
And pore upon his picture in the flood:
Till once a peeping dryad of the wood,
Tracking his steps along the slender path
Which he between the tree trunks trodden hath,
Misses the boy on whom her amorous eyes
Where wont to feed; but where he stood she spies
A new-made yellow flower, that still doth seem
To woo his own pale reflex in the stream;
Whom Phoebus kisses when the woods are still
And only ceaseless Echo from the hill
Unprompted cries Narcissus!