Georgian Poetry 1918-19 Part 19

It has found form and colour and light, The cold glimmer of the ice-wrapped Poles; It has called a far-off glow Arcturus, And some pale weeds, lilies of the valley.

It has imagined Virgil, Helen and Ca.s.sandra; The sack of Troy, and the weeping for Hector-- Rearing stark up 'mid all this beauty In the thick, dull neck of Ajax.

There is a dark Pine in Lapland, And the great, figured Horn of the Reindeer, Moving soundlessly across the snow, Is its twin brother, double-dreamed, In the mind of a far-off people.

It is strange that a little mud Should echo with sounds, syllables, and letters, Should rise up and call a mountain Popocatapetl, And a green-leafed wood Oleander.

These are the ghosts of invisible things; There is no Lapland, no Helen and no Hector, And the Reindeer is a darkening of the brain, And Oleander is but Oleander.

Mary Magdalena and the vine Lachryma Christi Were like ghosts up the ghost of Vesuvius, As I sat and drank wine with the soldiers, As I sat in the Inn on the mountain, Watching the shadows in my mind.

The mind of the people is like mud, Where are the imperishable things, The ghosts that flicker in the brain-- Silent women, orchids, and prophesying Kings, Dreams, trees, and water's bright babblings!

SONG

Gently, sorrowfully sang the maid Sowing the ploughed field over, And her song was only: 'Come, O my lover!'

Strangely, strangely shone the light, Stilly wound the river: 'Thy love is a dead man, He'll come back never.'

Sadly, sadly pa.s.sed the maid The fading dark hills over; Still her song far, far away said: 'Come, O my lover!'

THE PRINCESS

The stone-grey roses by the desert's rim Are soft-edged shadows on the moonlit sand, Grey are the broken walls of Khangavar, That haunt of nightingales, whose voices are Fountains that bubble in the dream-soft Moon.

Shall the Gazelles with moonbeam pale bright feet Entering the vanished gardens sniff the air-- Some scent may linger of that ancient time, Musician's song, or poet's pa.s.sionate rhyme, The Princess dead, still wandering love-sick there.

A Princess pale and cold as mountain snow, In cool, dark chambers sheltered from the sun, With long dark lashes and small delicate hands: All Persia sighed to kiss her small red mouth Until they buried her in shifting sand.

And the Gazelles shall flit by in the Moon And never shake the frail Tree's lightest leaves, And moonlight roses perfume the pale Dawn Until the scarlet life that left her lips Gathers its shattered beauty in the sky.

PEACE

In low chalk hills the great King's body lay, And bright streams fell, tinkling like polished tin, As though they carried off his armoury, And spread it glinting through his wide domain.

Old bearded soldiers sat and gazed dim-eyed At the strange brightness flowing under trees, And saw his sword flashing in ancient battles, And drank, and swore, and trembled helplessly.

And bright-haired maidens dipped their cold white arms, And drew them glittering colder, whiter, still; The sky sparkled like the dead King's blue eye Upon the sentries that were dead as trees.

His shining shield lay in an old grey town, And white swans sailed so still and dreamfully, They seemed the thoughts of those white, peaceful hills Mirrored that day within his glazing eyes.

And in the square the pale cool b.u.t.ter sold, Cropped from the daisies sprinkled on the downs, And old wives cried their wares, like queer day owls, Piercing the old men's sad and foolish dreams.

And Time flowed on till all the realm forgot The great King lying in the low chalk hills; Only the busy water dripping through His hard white bones knew of him lying there.

DEATH

When I am dead a few poor souls shall grieve As I grieved for my brother long ago.

Scarce did my eyes grow dim, I had forgotten him; I was far-off hearing the spring winds blow, And many summers burned When, though still reeling with my eyes aflame, I heard that faded name Whispered one Spring amid the hurrying world From which, years gone, he turned.

I looked up at my windows and I saw The trees, thin spectres sucked forth by the moon.

The air was very still Above a distant hill; It was the hour of night's full silver moon.

'O are thou there my brother?' my soul cried; And all the pale stars down bright rivers wept, As my heart sadly crept About the empty hills, bathed in that light That lapped him when he died.

Ah! it was cold, so cold; do I not know How dead my heart on that remembered day!

Clear in a far-away place I see his delicate face Just as he called me from my solitary play, Giving into my hands a tiny tree.

We planted it in the dark, blossomless ground Gravely, without a sound; Then back I went and left him standing by His birthday gift to me.

In that far land perchance it quietly grows Drinking the rain, making a pleasant shade; Birds in its branches fly Out of the fathomless sky Where worlds of circling light arise and fade.

Blindly it quivers in the bright flood of day, Or drowned in mult.i.tudinous shouts of rain Glooms o'er the dark-veiled plain-- Buried below, the ghost that's in his bones Dreams in the sodden clay.

And, while he faded, drunk with beauty's eyes I kissed bright girls and laughed deep in dumb trees, That stared fixt in the air Like madmen in despair Gaped up from earth with the escaping breeze.

I saw earth's exaltation slowly creep Out of their myriad sky-embracing veins.

I laughed along the lanes, Meeting Death riding in from the hollow seas Through black-wreathed woods asleep.

I laughed, I swaggered on the cold hard ground-- Through the grey air trembled a falling wave-- 'Thou'rt pale, O Death!' I cried, Mocking him in my pride; And pa.s.sing I dreamed not of that lonely grave, But of leaf-maidens whose pale, moon-like hands Above the tree-foam waved in the icy air, Sweeping with shining hair Through the green-tinted sky, one moment fled Out of immortal lands.

One windless Autumn night the Moon came out In a white sea of cloud, a field of snow; In darkness shaped of trees, I sank upon my knees And watched her shining, from the small wood below-- Faintly Death flickered in an owl's far cry--- We floated soundless in the great gulf of s.p.a.ce, Her light upon my face-- Immortal, shining in that dark wood I knelt And knew I could not die.

And knew I could not die--O Death, didst thou Heed my vain glory, standing pale by thy dead?

There is a spirit who grieves Amid earth's dying leaves; Was't thou that wept beside my brother's bed?

For I did never mourn nor heed at all Him pa.s.sing on his temporal elm-wood bier; I never shed a tear.

The drooping sky spread grey-winged through my soul, While stones and earth did fall.

That sound rings down the years--I hear it yet-- All earthly life's a winding funeral-- And though I never wept, But into the dark coach stept, Dreaming by night to answer the blood's sweet call, She who stood there, high-breasted, with small, wise lips, And gave me wine to drink and bread to eat, Has not more steadfast feet, But fades from my arms as fade from mariners' eyes The sea's most beauteous ships.

The trees and hills of earth were once as close As my own brother, they are becoming dreams And shadows in my eyes; More dimly lies Guaya deep in my soul, the coastline gleams Faintly along the darkening crystalline seas.

Glimmering and lovely still, 'twill one day go; The surging dark will flow Over my hopes and joys, and blot out all Earth's hills and skies and trees.

I shall look up one night and see the Moon For the last time shining above the hills, And thou, silent, wilt ride Over the dark hillside.

'Twill be, perchance, the time of daffodils-- _'How come those bright immortals in the woods?

Their joy being young, didst thou not drag them all Into dark graves ere Fall?'_ Shall life thus haunt me, wondering, as I go To thy deep solitudes?

There is a figure with a down-turned torch Carved on a pillar in an olden time, A calm and lovely boy Who comes not to destroy But to lead age back to its golden prime.

Thus did an antique sculptor draw thee, Death, With smooth and beauteous brow and faint sweet smile, Not haggard, gaunt and vile, And thou perhaps art thus to whom men may, Unvexed, give up their breath.

But in my soul thou sittest like a dream Among earth's mountains, by her dim-coloured seas; A wild unearthly Shape In thy dark-glimmering cape, Piping a tune of wavering melodies, Thou sittest, ay, thou sittest at the feast Of my brief life among earth's bright-wreathed flowers, Staining the dancing hours With sombre gleams until, abrupt, thou risest And all, at once, is ceased.

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