Georgian Poetry 1911-1912 Part 18

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! All shall try To win him. But the beech and I, Man and tree made one at last, Alone have power to hold him fast.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Forth I creep, When the flowers fall asleep, And upgather odours rare Floating on the misty air, All to be imprisoned where My sap is rising till they reach The swelling twigs, and thence shall each Separate scent be shaken free As my flowers and leaves agree.

Rare in sooth those flowers shall be: Cunningly will I devise Colours to delight the eyes, Slipping from my fissured stem To get by stealth or stratagem The glory of the morning petal.

Where the bees at noontide settle, Mine to rifle all their sweets: Honey and bee-bread on the teats Of my blossoms shall be spread, Till the lime-trees shake with dread Of the marvels still to come When their bees about me hum.

Welcome, welcome, cloudless night, Is our labour ended quite?

Are the mortal and the tree Now made one in ecstasy, One in foretaste of the dawn?

Crescent moon, sink, sink outworn!

Stars be buried, stars be born, Mount and dip to tell aright The doings of the morrow's light!

Mists, a.s.semble, hide me quite, Till the sun with growing strength Grips your veils, and length by length Tears them down from head to foot; Then to the challenge I am put!

Tell me busy, busy glade, Half in light and half in shade, Is your world of wood-folk there?

All are come but the mole and hare; One is blind, and underground Of that tumult hears no sound; The other Pan has crept within, To bask afield in the hare-skin.

All are come of woodland fowl But the cuckoo and the owl; The owl's asleep, and the cuckoo-bird Nowhere seen is eachwhere heard.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Those that see The leafing of this great beech-tree, And its flowers of every kind, Woodland lovers have in mind; Those that breathe the scented wind Or touch this bark of satin, could Never issue from our wood.

Tell me, busy, busy glade, Are little flying things afraid?

All are come of aery folk, Gnats that hover like a smoke, b.u.t.terflies and humble-bees, Insects winged in all degrees, Honey-toilers, pleasure-makers, Of labours and of joys forsakers, Round these boughs to live and die.

Only the moth and the dragon-fly Keep their haunts and come not nigh: The moth is moonstruck, she must creep With twitching wings, and half-asleep, Through folds of darkness; and that other, The dragon-fly, Narcissus' brother, Flashes all his burnished mail In a still pool adown the dale.

Tell me, busy, busy glade, Shifting aye in light and shade, Are the dryads peeping forth, More in wonder than in wrath, Each beneath her own dear tree Parting her hair that she may see How queens put on their sovereignty?

All are come of Pan's own race, Nymphs and satyrs fill the place, Necks outstretched and ears a-twitching, That Pan may know of all this witching.

Heedless stumble the goatfeet Till four-footed things retreat.

Cries of Ah! and Ay! and Eh!

Scare the forest birds away, And their notes that rang so clear At dawn, you now shall rarely hear: Only a robin here and there Pitches high his trembling voice In a challenge to rejoice.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! How two notes Stolen from all woodland throats Make the satyrs stand like stone, Waiting for Pan to call his own!

How the couching dryads seem To root themselves as in a dream, And the naiads, wan and whist, To melt into an evening mist!

Tell me, silent, silent glade, All in light that once was shade, All in shade that once was light, How went the creatures from my sight?

Where are the shapes that turned to stone, And my tree that reigned alone?

Red and watchful, still and bare, With a thousand spears in air, Stands the beech that you would bind Unlawfully to human mind.

Gone is every woodland elf To the mighty G.o.d himself.

Mortal! You yourself are fast!

Doubt not Pan shall come at last To put a leer within your eyes That pry into his mysteries.

He shall touch the busy brain Lest it ever teem again; Point the ears and twist the feet, Till by day you dare not meet Men, or in the failing light Mutter more than, Friend, good-night!

Tell me, whispering, whispering glade, Am I eager or afraid?

Do I wish the G.o.d to come?

What shall I say if he be dumb?

Tell me, wherefore hiss and sigh Those shrivelled leaves? Has Pan gone by?

Why do your thousand pools of light Gaze like eyes that fade at night?

Pan has but twain, Pan's eyes are bright!

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! See, yon stakes Gape and grin like fangs of snakes; Not snakes nor hounds are mouthing thus; Pan himself is watching us.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Now The G.o.d is breasting the hill-brow.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Pan is near: Joy runs trembling back to fear.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! All my blood Knocks through the heart whose every thud Chokes me, blinds me, drains my madness.

As one half-drowned, I feel life's gladness Ooze from each pore. Towards the sun Downhill I reel that fain would run.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Thornless seem Briars that part as in a dream.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Hazel-boughs Hurt not though they blood the brows.

Cuckoo! In a meadow p.r.o.ne At last I lie, my wits my own; And in my hand I clasp the flower To counteract that magic power; The cuckoo-flower, in a lilac sheet Under body, head and feet.

Above me apple-blossoms fleck The cloudless sky, a neighbouring beck With many a happy gurgle goes Down to the farm through alder-rows.

Strange it is, and it is sweet, To hear the distant mill-wheel beat, And the kindly cries of men Turning the cattle home again, The clank of pails and all the shades Of laughter of the busy maids.

Now is come the evening star, And my limbs new-blooded are.

So beside the stream I choose A path that patient anglers use, Which with many twists and turns Brings me where a candle burns, A lowly light, through cottage pane Seen and hid and seen again.

Cuckoo! Now you call in vain.

I am far and I am free From all woodland wizardry!

JAMES STEPHENS

IN THE POPPY FIELD

Mad Patsy said, he said to me, That every morning he could see An angel walking on the sky; Across the sunny skies of morn He threw great handfuls far and nigh Of poppy seed among the corn; And then, he said, the angels run To see the poppies in the sun.

A poppy is a devil weed, I said to him--he disagreed; He said the devil had no hand In spreading flowers tall and fair Through corn and rye and meadow land, By garth and barrow everywhere: The devil has not any flower, But only money in his power.

And then he stretched out in the sun And rolled upon his back for fun: He kicked his legs and roared for joy Because the sun was shining down, He said he was a little boy And would not work for any clown: He ran and laughed behind a bee, And danced for very ecstasy.

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING

I thought I heard Him calling. Did you hear A sound, a little sound? My curious ear Is dinned with flying noises, and the tree Goes--whisper, whisper, whisper silently Till all its whispers spread into the sound Of a dull roar. Lie closer to the ground, The shade is deep and He may pa.s.s us by.

We are so very small, and His great eye, Customed to starry majesties, may gaze Too wide to spy us hiding in the maze; Ah, misery! the sun has not yet gone And we are naked: He will look upon Our crouching shame, may make us stand upright Burning in terror--O that it were night!

He may not come ... what? listen, listen, now-- He is here! lie closer ... 'Adam, where art thou?'

THE LONELY G.o.d

So Eden was deserted, and at eve Into the quiet place G.o.d came to grieve.

His face was sad, His hands hung slackly down Along his robe; too sorrowful to frown He paced along the gra.s.sy paths and through The silent trees, and where the flowers grew Tended by Adam. All the birds had gone Out to the world, and singing was not one To cheer the lonely G.o.d out of His grief-- The silence broken only when a leaf Tapt lightly on a leaf, or when the wind, Slow-handed, swayed the bushes to its mind.