Georgian Poetry 1918-19 Part 15

Who speaks? Death has his silent messengers.

And there was more than silence in this room

While you were gazing at me from the wall And wondering how you'd match your dreams with mine, If, mastering time's illusion, you could call Me back to share your vanished candle-shine.

THRUSHES

Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim, Whose voices make the emptiness of light A windy palace. Quavering from the brim Of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night, They clutch their leafy pinnacles and sing Scornful of man, and from his toils aloof Whose heart's a haunted woodland whispering; Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing; Who hears the cry of G.o.d in everything, And storms the gate of nothingness for proof.

EVERYONE SANG

Everyone suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom, Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark-green fields; on--on--and out of sight.

Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted; And beauty came like the setting sun: My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away ... O, but Everyone Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

EDWARD SHANKS

A NIGHT-PIECE

Come out and walk. The last few drops of light Drain silently out of the cloudy blue; The trees are full of the dark-stooping night, The fields are wet with dew.

All's quiet in the wood but, far away, Down the hillside and out across the plain, Moves, with long trail of white that marks its way, The softly panting train.

Come through the clearing. Hardly now we see The flowers, save dark or light against the gra.s.s, Or glimmering silver on a scented tree That trembles as we pa.s.s.

Hark now! So far, so far ... that distant song ...

Move not the rustling gra.s.ses with your feet.

The dusk is full of sounds, that all along The muttering boughs repeat.

So far, so faint, we lift our heads in doubt.

Wind, or the blood that beats within our ears, Has feigned a dubious and delusive note, Such as a dreamer hears.

Again ... again! The faint sounds rise and fail.

So far the enchanted tree, the song so low...

A drowsy thrush? A waking nightingale?

Silence. We do not know.

IN ABSENCE

My lovely one, be near to me to-night.

For now I need you most, since I have gone Through the spa.r.s.e woodland in the fading light, Where in time past we two have walked alone, Heard the loud nightjar spin his pleasant note, And seen the wild rose folded up for sleep, And whispered, though the soft word choked my throat, Your dear name out across the valley deep.

Be near to me, for now I need you most.

To-night I saw an unsubstantial flame Flickering along those shadowy paths, a ghost That turned to me and answered to your name, Mocking me with a wraith of far delight.

... My lovely one, be near to me to-night.

THE GLOW-WORM

The pale road winds faintly upward into the dark skies, And beside it on the rough gra.s.s that the wind invisibly stirs, Sheltered by sharp-speared gorse and the berried junipers, Shining steadily with a green light, the glow-worm lies.

We regard it; and this hill and all the other hills That fall in folds to the river, very smooth and steep, And the hangers and brakes that the darkness thickly fills Fade like phantoms round the light, and night is deep, so deep,--

That all the world is emptiness about the still flame, And we are small shadows standing lost in the huge night.

We gather up the glow-worm, stooping with dazzled sight, And carry it to the little enclosed garden whence we came,

And place it on the short gra.s.s. Then the shadowy flowers fade, The walls waver and melt and the houses disappear And the solid town trembles into insubstantial shade Round the light of the burning glow-worm, steady and clear.

THE CATACLYSM

When a great wave disturbs the ocean cold And throws the bottom waters to the sky, Strange apparitions on the surface lie, Great battered vessels, stripped of gloss and gold, And, writhing in their pain, sea-monsters old, Who stain the waters with a b.l.o.o.d.y dye, With unaccustomed mouths bellow and cry And vex the waves with struggling fin and fold.

And with these too come little trivial things Tossed from the deeps by the same casual hand; A faint sea flower, dragged from the lowest sand, That will not undulate its luminous wings In the slow tides again, lies dead and swings Along the muddy ripples to the land.

A HOLLOW ELM

What hast thou not withstood, Tempest-despising tree, Whose bloat and riven wood Gapes now so hollowly, What rains have beaten thee through many years, What snows from off thy branches dripped like tears?

Calmly thou standest now Upon thy sunny mound; The first spring breezes flow Past with sweet dizzy sound; Yet on thy pollard top the branches few Stand stiffly out, disdain to murmur too.

The children at thy foot Open new-lighted eyes, Where, on gnarled bark and root, The soft warm sunshine lies-- Dost thou, upon thine ancient sides, resent The touch of youth, quick and impermanent?

These at the beck of spring Live in the moment still: Thy boughs unquivering, Remembering winter's chill, And many other winters past and gone, Are mocked, not cheated, by the transient sun.

Hast thou so much withstood, Tempest-despising tree, That now thy hollow wood Stiffens disdainfully Against the soft spring airs and soft spring rain, Knowing too well that winter comes again?