Georgian Poetry 1911-1912 Part 17

He is mad!

Damon:

Mad--yes--mad as cruelty!

Poor, poor Cydilla! was it then to this That all my tale was prologue?

Think of Amyntas, think of that poor boy, Bereaved as we are both bereaved! Come, come, Find him, and say that Love himself has sent us To offer our poor service in his stead.

Cydilla:

Good Damon, help me find my wool; my eyes Are blind with tears; then I will come at once!

We must be doing something, for I feel We both shall drown our hearts with time to spare.

RONALD ROSS

HESPERUS

Ah whither dost thou float, sweet silent star, In yonder floods of evening's dying light?

Before the fanning wings of rising night, Methinks thy silvery bark is driven far To some lone isle or calmly havened sh.o.r.e, Where the lorn eye of man can follow thee no more.

How many a one hath watched thee even as I, And unto thee and thy receding ray Poured forth his thoughts with many a treasured sigh Too sweet and strange for the remorseless day; But thou hast gone and left unto their sight Too great a host of stars, and yet too black a night.

E'en as I gaze upon thee, thy bright form Doth sail away among the cloudy isles Around whose sh.o.r.es the sea of sunlight smiles.

On thee may break no black and boisterous storm To turn the tenour of thy calm career.

As thou wert long ago so now thou dost appear.

Art thou a tear left by the exiled day Upon the dusky cheek of drowsy night?

Or dost thou as a lark carol alway Full in the liquid glow of heavenly light?

Or, bent on discord and angelic wars, As some bright spirit tread before the trooping stars?

The disenchanted vapours hide thee fast; The watery twilight fades and night comes on; One lingering moment more and thou art gone, Lost in the rising sea of clouds that cast Their inundations o'er the darkening air; And wild the night wind wails the lightless world's despair.

EDMUND BEALE SARGANT

THE CUCKOO WOOD

Cuckoo, are you calling me, Or is it a voice of wizardry?

In these woodlands I am lost, From glade to glade of flowers tost.

Seven times I held my way, And seven times the voice did say, Cuckoo! Cuckoo! No man could Issue from this underwood, Half of green and half of brown, Unless he laid his senses down.

Only let him chance to see The snows of the anemone Heaped above its greenery; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! No man could Issue from the master wood.

Magic paths there are that cross; Some beset with jewelled moss And boughs all bare; where others run, Bluebells bathe in mist and sun Past a clearing filled with clumps Of primrose round the nutwood stumps; All as gay as gay can be, And bordered with dog-mercury, The wizard flower, the wizard green, Like a Persian carpet seen.

Brown, dead bracken lies between, And wrinkled leaves, whence fronds of fern Still untwist and upward turn.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! No man could Issue from this wizard wood, Half of green, and half of brown, Unless he laid his senses down.

Seven times I held my way Where new heaps of brushwood lay, All with withies loosely bound, And never heard a human sound.

Yet men have toiled and men have rested By yon hurdles darkly-breasted, Woven in and woven out, Piled four-square, and turned about To show their white and sharpened stakes Like teeth of hounds or fangs of snakes.

The men are homeward sped, for none Loves silence and a sinking sun.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Woodmen know Souls are lost that hear it so, Seven times upon the wind, To lull the watch-dogs of the mind.

A stranger wood you shall not find!

Beech and birch and oak agree Here to dwell in company.

Hazel, elder, few men could Name the kinds of underwood.

Summer and winter haunt together, And golden light with misty weather.

'Tis summer where this beech is seen Defenceless in its virgin green; All its leaves are smooth and thin, And the sunlight pa.s.ses in, Pa.s.ses in and filters through To a green heaven below the blue.

Low the branches fall and trace A circle round that mystic place, Guarded on its outward side By hyacinths in all their pride; And within dim moons appear, Wax and wane--I go not near!

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! How we fear Sights and sounds that come and go Without a cause for men to know!

Why for a whispered doubt should I Shun that other beech-tree high, Red and watchful, still and bare, With a thousand spears in air, Guarding yet its treasured leaf From storm and hail and winter's grief?

Unregarded on the ground Leaves of yester-year abound, For what is autumn's gold to one That h.o.a.rds a life scarce yet begun?

Let me so renew my youth, I defend it, nail and tooth, Rooting deep and lifting high.

For this my dead leaves hiss and sigh And glow as on the downward road To the dog-snake's dread abode.

Noxious things of earth and air, Get you hence, for I prepare To flaunt my beauty in the sun When all beside me are undone.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Pan shall see The surge of my virginity Overtop the sobered glade.

Luminous and unafraid Near his sacred oak I'll spread Lures to tempt him from his bed: His couch, his lair his form shall be By none but by the fair beech-tree.

O cunning Oak! What is your skill To hold the G.o.d against my will?

Keep your favours back like me, With disfavour he shall see Orange hues of jealousy: Show your leaf in early prime, It shall be dark before its time: Me you shall not rival ever.

Silver Birch, would you endeavour, Trembling in your bridal dress, To win at last a dog's caress?

Through your twigs so thin and dark Shows the black and ashen bark, Like a face that underneath Tightened eyebrows looks on death.

Think not, dwarf, that Pan shall find Aught about you to his mind.