Sea Garden Part 6

HERMES OF THE WAYS

The hard sand breaks, and the grains of it are clear as wine.

Far off over the leagues of it, the wind, playing on the wide sh.o.r.e, piles little ridges, and the great waves break over it.

But more than the many-foamed ways of the sea, I know him of the triple path-ways, Hermes, who awaits.

Dubious, facing three ways, welcoming wayfarers, he whom the sea-orchard shelters from the west, from the east weathers sea-wind; fronts the great dunes.

Wind rushes over the dunes, and the coa.r.s.e, salt-crusted gra.s.s answers.

Heu, it whips round my ankles!

II

Small is this white stream, flowing below ground from the poplar-shaded hill, but the water is sweet.

Apples on the small trees are hard, too small, too late ripened by a desperate sun that struggles through sea-mist.

The boughs of the trees are twisted by many bafflings; twisted are the small-leafed boughs.

But the shadow of them is not the shadow of the mast head nor of the torn sails.

Hermes, Hermes, the great sea foamed, gnashed its teeth about me; but you have waited, were sea-gra.s.s tangles with sh.o.r.e-gra.s.s.

PEAR TREE

Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted, O silver, higher than my arms reach you front us with great ma.s.s;

no flower ever opened so staunch a white leaf, no flower ever parted silver from such rare silver;

O white pear, your flower-tufts thick on the branch bring summer and ripe fruits in their purple hearts.

CITIES

Can we believe--by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street, each patterned alike, no grace to lighten a single house of the hundred crowded into one garden-s.p.a.ce.

Crowded--can we believe, not in utter disgust, in ironical play-- but the maker of cities grew faint with the beauty of temple and s.p.a.ce before temple, arch upon perfect arch, of pillars and corridors that led out to strange court-yards and porches where sun-light stamped hyacinth-shadows black on the pavement.

That the maker of cities grew faint with the splendour of palaces, paused while the incense-flowers from the incense-trees dropped on the marble-walk, thought anew, fashioned this-- street after street alike.

For alas, he had crowded the city so full that men could not grasp beauty, beauty was over them, through them, about them, no crevice unpacked with the honey, rare, measureless.

So he built a new city, ah can we believe, not ironically but for new splendour constructed new people to lift through slow growth to a beauty unrivalled yet-- and created new cells, hideous first, hideous now-- spread larve across them, not honey but seething life.

And in these dark cells, packed street after street, souls live, hideous yet-- O disfigured, defaced, with no trace of the beauty men once held so light.

Can we think a few old cells were left--we are left-- grains of honey, old dust of stray pollen dull on our torn wings, we are left to recall the old streets?

Is our task the less sweet that the larve still sleep in their cells?

Or crawl out to attack our frail strength: You are useless. We live.

We await great events.

We are spread through this earth.

We protect our strong race.

You are useless.

Your cell takes the place of our young future strength.

Though they sleep or wake to torment and wish to displace our old cells-- thin rare gold-- that their larve grow fat-- is our task the less sweet?

Though we wander about, find no honey of flowers in this waste, is our task the less sweet-- who recall the old splendour, await the new beauty of cities?

_The city is peopled with spirits, not ghosts, O my love:_

_Though they crowded between and usurped the kiss of my mouth their breath was your gift, their beauty, your life._

[Ill.u.s.tration]