Georgian Poetry 1911-1912 Part 13

For thou hast gathered (as a mother will The sayings of her children in her heart) The harvest-thoughts of reapers on the hill, When the cool rose and honeysuckle fill The air, and fruit is laden on the cart.

Thou breathest the delight Of summer evening at the deep-roofed farm, And meditation of the summer night, When the enravished earth is lying warm From recent kisses of the conquering sun.

Dwell as a spirit in me, O thou one Sweet natural presence. In the years to be When all the mortal loves perchance are done, Them I will bid farewell, but, oh, not thee.

I love thee. When the youthful visions fade, Fade thou not also in the hopeless past.

Be constant and delightful, as a maid Sought over all the world, and found at last.

T. STURGE MOORE

A SICILIAN IDYLL

(FIRST SCENE)

Damon:

I thank thee, no; Already have I drunk a bowl of wine ...

Nay, nay, why wouldst thou rise?

There rolls thy ball of worsted! Sit thee down; Come, sit thee down, Cydilla, And let me fetch thy ball, rewind the wool, And tell thee all that happened yesterday.

Cydilla:

Thanks, Damon; now, by Zeus, thou art so brisk, It shames me that to stoop should try my bones.

Damon:

We both are old, And if we may have peaceful days are blessed; Few hours of buoyancy will come to break The sure withdrawal from us of life's flood.

Cydilla:

True, true, youth looks a great way off! To think It once was age did lie quite out of sight!

Damon:

Not many days have been so beautiful As yesterday, Cydilla; yet one was; And I with thee broke tranced on its fine spell; Thou dost remember? yes? but not with tears, Ah, not with tears, Cydilla, pray, oh, pray!

Cydilla:

Pardon me, Damon, 'Tis many years since thou hast touched thereon; And something stirs about thee-- Such air of eagerness as was thine when I was more foolish than in my life, I hope To ever have been at another time.

Damon:

Pooh! foolish?--thou wast then so very wise That, often having seen thee foolish since, Wonder has made me faint that thou shouldst err.

Cydilla:

Nay, then I erred, dear Damon; and remorse Was not so slow to find me as thou deemst.

Damon:

There, mop those dear wet eyes, or thou'lt ne'er hear What it was filled my heart full yesterday.

Cydilla:

Tell, Damon; since I well know that regrets Hang like dull gossips round another's ear.

Damon:

First, thou must know that oftentimes I rise,-- Not heeding or not finding sleep, of watching Afraid no longer to be prodigal,-- And gaze upon the beauty of the night.

Quiet hours, while dawn absorbs the waning stars, Are like cold water sipped between our cups Washing the jaded palate till it taste The wine again. Ere the sun rose, I sat Within my garden porch; my lamp was left Burning beside my bed, though it would be Broad day before I should return upstairs.

I let it burn, willing to waste some oil Rather than to disturb my tranquil mood; But, as the Fates determined, it was seen.-- Suddenly, running round the dovecote, came A young man naked, breathless, through the dawn, Florid with haste and wine; it was Hipparchus.

Yes, there he stood before me panting, rubbing His heated flesh which felt the cold at once.

When he had breath enough he begged me straight To put the lamp out; and himself had done it Ere I was on the stair.

Flung all along my bed, his gasping shook it When I at length could sit down by his side: 'What cause, young sir, brings you here in this plight At such an hour?' He shuddered, sighed and rolled My blanket round him; then came a gush of words: 'The first of causes, Damon, namely Love, Eldest and least resigned and most unblushing Of all the turbulent impulsive G.o.ds.

A quarter of an hour scarce has flown Since lovely arms clung round me, and my head Asleep lay nested in a woman's hair; My cheek still bears print of its ample coils.'

Athwart its burning flush he drew my fingers And their tips felt it might be as he said.

'Oh I have had a night, a night, a night!

Had Paris so much bliss?

And oh! was Helen's kiss To be compared with those I tasted?

Which but for me had all been wasted On a bald man, a fat man, a gross man, a beast To scare the best guest from the very best feast!'

Cydilla need not hear half that he said, For he was mad awhile.

But having given rein to hot caprice, And satyr jest, and the distempered male, At length, I heard his story.

At sun-down certain miles without the town.

He'd chanced upon a light-wheeled litter-car, And in it there stood one Yet more a woman than her garb was rich, With more of youth and health than elegance.

'The mules,' he said, 'were beauties: she was one, And cried directions to the neighbour field: "O catch that big bough! Fool, not that, the next!

Clumsy, you've let it go! O stop it swaying, The eggs will jolt out!" From the road,' said he, 'I could not see who thus was rated; so Sprang up beside her and beheld her husband, Lover or keeper, what you like to call him;-- A middle-aged stout man upon whose shoulders Kneeled up a scraggy mule-boy slave, who was The fool that could not reach a thrush's nest Which they, while plucking almond, had revealed.

Before she knew who it could be, I said "Why yes, he is a fool, but we, fair friend, Were we not foolish waiting for such fools?