The Sunken Garden, and Other Poems

T H E     S U N K E N G A R D E N AND   OTHER   POEMS   BY WALTER   DE   LA   MARE The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Sunken Garden, and Other Poems This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org . If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title : The Sunken Garden, and Other Poems Author : Walter De la Mare Release date : October 17, 2015 [eBook #50240] Most recently updated: October 22, 2024 Language : English Other information and formats : www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50240 Credits : Produced by Shaun Pinder, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SUNKEN GARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS *** THE SUNKEN GARDEN This is the second book issued by the Beaumont Press 20 copies have been printed on Japanese vellum signed by the author and numbered 1 to 20 and 250 copies on hand-made paper numbered 21 to 270. This is No. 200. T H E     S U N K E N G A R D E N AND   OTHER   POEMS   BY WALTER   DE   LA   MARE CONTENTS Page THE LITTLE SALAMANDER When I go free, 9 THE SUNKEN GARDEN Speak not—whisper not; 10 THE RIDDLERS ‘Thou Solitary!’ the Blackbird cried, 11 MRS. GRUNDY ‘Step very softly, sweet Quiet-foot, 13 THE DARK HOUSE See this house, how dark it is 15 MISTRESS FELL ‘Whom seek you here, sweet Mistress Fell?’ 16 THE STRANGER In the woods as I did walk, 18 THE FLIGHT How do the days press on, and lay 19 THE REMONSTRANCE I was at peace until you came 20 THE EXILE I am that Adam who, with Snake for guest, 21 EYES O Strange Devices that alone divide 22 THE TRYST Why in my heart, O grief, 23 THE OLD MEN Old and alone, sit we, 25 THE FOOL’S SONG Never, no, never, listen too long, 26 THE DREAMER O Thou who giving helm and sword, 27 MOTLEY Come, Death, have a word with thee; 28 TO E. T.: 1917. You sleep too well—too far away, 31 ALEXANDER It was the great Alexander, 32 FOR ALL THE GRIEF For all the grief I have given with words 34 FAREWELL When I lie where shades of darkness 35 CLEAR EYES Clear eyes do dim at last, 36 MUSIC When Music sounds, gone is the earth I know, 37 IN A CHURCHYARD As children bidden to go to bed 38 TWO HOUSES In the strange city of life 39 COLOPHON 40 THE LITTLE SALAMANDER: TO MARGOT W HEN I GO FREE, I think ’twill be A night of stars and snow, And the wild fires of frost shall light My footsteps as I go; Nobody—nobody will be there With groping touch, or sight, To see me in my bush of hair Dance burning through the night. THE SUNKEN GARDEN S PEAK NOT—WHISPER NOT; Here bloweth thyme and bergamot; Softly on the evening hour, Secret herbs their spices shower, Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh, Lean-stalked, purple lavender; Hides within her bosom, too, All her sorrows, bitter rue. Breathe not—trespass not; Of this green and darkling spot, Latticed from the moon’s beams, Perchance a distant dreamer dreams; Perchance upon its darkening air, The unseen ghosts of children fare, Faintly swinging, sway and sweep, Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep; While, unmoved, to watch and ward, ’Mid its gloom’d and daisied sward, Stands with bowed and dewy head That one little leaden Lad. THE RIDDLERS ‘T HOU SOLITARY!’ the Blackbird cried, ‘I, from the happy Wren, Linnet and Blackcap, Woodlark, Thrush, Perched all upon a sweetbrier bush, Have come at cold of midnight-tide To ask thee, Why and when Grief smote thy heart so thou dost sing In solemn hush of evening, So sorrowfully, lovelorn Thing— Nay, nay, not sing, but rave, but wail, Most melancholic Nightingale? Do not the dews of darkness steep All pinings of the day in sleep? Why, then, when rocked in starry nest We mutely couch, secure, at rest, Doth thy lone heart delight to make Music for sorrow’s sake?’ A Moon was there. So still her beam, It seemed the whole world lay a-dream, Lulled by the watery sea. And from her leafy night-hung nook Upon this stranger soft did look The Nightingale: sighed he:— ‘’Tis strange, my friend; the Kingfisher But yestermorn conjured me here Out of his green and gold to say Why thou, in splendour of the noon Wearest of colour but golden shoon. And else dost thee array In a most sombre suit of black? “Surely,” he sighed, “some load of grief, Past all our thinking—and belief— Must weigh upon his back!” Do, then, in turn, tell me,—If joy Thy heart as well as voice employ, Why dost thou now, most Sable, shine In plumage woefuller far than mine? Thy silence is a sadder thing Than any dirge I sing!’ Thus then these two small birds, perched there, Breathed a strange riddle both did share Yet neither could expound. And we—who sing but as we can, In the small knowledge of a man— Have we an answer found? Nay, some are happy whose delight Is hid even from themselves from sight; And some win peace who spend The skill of words to sweeten despair Of finding consolation where Life has but one dark end; Who, in rapt solitude, tell o’er A tale as lovely as forlore Into the midnight air. MRS. GRUNDY ‘S TEP VERY SOFTLY, sweet Quiet-foot, Stumble not, whisper not, smile not: By this dark ivy stoop cheek and brow. Still even thy heart! What seest thou?’ ‘High coifed, broad-browed, aged, suave yet grim, A large flat face, eyes keenly dim, Staring at nothing—that’s me!—and yet, With a hate one could never, no, never forget....’ ‘This is my world, my garden, my home, Hither my father bade mother to come And bear me out of the dark into light, And happy I was in her tender sight. ‘And then, thou frail flower, she died and went, Forgetting my pitiless banishment, And that Old Woman—an Aunt—she said, Came hither, lodged, fattened, and made her bed. ‘Oh yes, thou most blessed, from Monday to Sunday Has lived on me, preyed on me, Mrs. Grundy: Called me, “dear Nephew”; on each of those chairs Has gloated in righteousness, heard my prayers. ‘Why didst thou dare the thorns of the grove, Timidest trespasser, huntress of love? Now thou has peeped, and now dost know What kind of creature is thine for foe. ‘Not that she’ll tear out thy innocent eyes, Poison thy mouth with deviltries. Watch thou, wait thou: soon will begin The guile of a voice: hark!... “Come in, Come in!”’ THE DARK HOUSE S EE THIS HOUSE, how dark it is Beneath its vast-boughed trees! Not one trembling leaflet cries To that Watcher in the skies— ‘Remove, remove thy searching gaze, Innocent, of Heaven’s ways, Brood not, Moon, so wildly bright, On secrets hidden from sight.’ ‘Secrets,’ sighs the night-wind, ‘Vacancy is all I find; Every keyhole I have made Wail a summons, faint and sad, No voice ever answers me, Only vacancy.’ ‘Once, once ...’ the cricket shrills, And far and near the quiet fills With its tiny voice, and then Hush falls again. Mute shadows creeping slow Mark how the hours go, Every stone is mouldering slow, And the least winds that blow Some minutest atom shake, Some fretting ruin make In roof and walls. How black it is Beneath these thick-boughed trees! MISTRESS FELL ‘W HOM seek you here, sweet Mistress Fell?’ ‘One who loved me passing well. Dark his eye, wild his face— Stranger, if in this lonely place Bide such an one, then, prythee, say I am come here to-day.’ ‘Many his like, Mistress Fell?’ ‘I did not look, so cannot tell. Only this I surely know, When his voice called me, I must go; Touched me his fingers, and my heart Leapt at the sweet pain’s smart.’ ‘Why did he leave you, Mistress Fell?’ ‘Magic laid its dreary spell.— Stranger, he was fast asleep; Into his dream I tried to creep; Called his name, soft was my cry: He answered—not one sigh. ‘The flower and the thorn are here; Falleth the night-dew, cold and clear; Out of her bower the bird replies, Mocking the dark with ecstasies: See how the earth’s green grass doth grow, Praising what sleeps below! ‘Thus have they told me. And I come, As flies the wounded wild-bird home. Not tears I give; but all that he Clasped in his arms sweet charity; All that he loved—to him I bring For a close whispering.’ THE STRANGER I N THE WOODS AS I DID WALK, Dappled with the moon’s beam, I did with a Stranger talk, And his name was Dream. Spurred his heel, dark his cloak, Shady-wide his bonnet’s brim; His horse beneath a silvery oak Grazed as I talked with him. Softly his breast-brooch burned and shone; Hill and deep were in his eyes; One of his hands held mine, and one The fruit that makes men wise. Wonderly strange was earth to see, Flowers white as milk did gleam; Spread to Heaven the Assyrian Tree Over my head with Dream. Dews were still betwixt us twain; Stars a trembling beauty shed; Yet—not a whisper comes again Of the words he said. THE FLIGHT H OW DO THE DAYS press on, and lay Their fallen locks at evening down, Whileas the stars in darkness play And moonbeams weave a crown— A crown of flower-like light in heaven, Where in the hollow arch of space Morn’s mistress dreams, and the Pleiads seven Stand watch about her place. Stand watch—O days no number keep Of hours when this dark clay is blind. When the world’s clocks are dumb in sleep ’Tis then I seek my kind. THE REMONSTRANCE I WAS AT PEACE UNTIL YOU CAME And set a careless mind aflame; I lived in quiet; cold, content; All longing in safe banishment, Until your ghostly lips and eyes Made wisdom unwise. Naught was in me to tempt your feet To seek a lodging. Quite forgot Lay the sweet solitude we two In childhood used to wander through; Time’s cold had closed my heart about; And shut you out. Well, and what then?... O vision grave, Take all the little all I have! Strip me of what in voiceless thought Life’s kept of life, unhoped, unsought!— Reverie and dream that memory must Hide deep in dust! This only I say,—Though cold and bare The haunted house you have chosen to share, Still ’neath its walls the moonbeam goes And trembles on the untended rose; Still o’er its broken roof-tree rise The starry arches of the skies; And ’neath your lightest word shall be The thunder of an ebbing sea. THE EXILE I AM that Adam who, with Snake for guest, Hid anguished eyes upon Eve’s piteous breast. I am that Adam who, with broken wings, Fled from the Seraph’s brazen trumpetings. Betrayed and fugitive, I still must roam A world where sin—and beauty—whisper of home. Oh, from wide circuit, shall at length I see Pure daybreak lighten again on Eden’s tree? Loosed from remorse and hope and love’s distress, Enrobe me again in my lost nakedness? No more with wordless grief a loved one grieve, But to heaven’s nothingness re-welcome Eve? EYES O STRANGE DEVICES that alone divide The seër from the seen— The very highway of earth’s pomp and pride That lies between The traveller and the cheating, sweet delight Of where he longs to be, But which, bound hand and foot, he, close on night, Can only see. THE TRYST W HY IN MY HEART, O GRIEF, Dost thou in beauty bide? Dead is my well-content, And buried deep my pride. Cold are their stones, beloved, To hand and side. The shadows of even are gone, Shut are the day’s clear flowers, Now have her birds left mute Their singing bowers, Lone shall we be, we twain, In the night hours. Thou with thy cheek on mine, And dark hair loosed, shalt see Take the far stars for fruit The cypress tree, And in the yew’s black Shall the moon be. We will tell no old tales, Nor heed if in wandering air Die a lost song of love Or the once fair; Still as well-water be The thoughts we share! And, while the ghosts keep Tryst from chill sepulchres, Dreamless our gaze shall sleep, And sealed our ears; Heart unto heart will speak, Without tears. O, thy veiled, lovely face— Joy’s strange disguise— Shall be the last to fade From these rapt eyes, Ere the first dart of daybreak Pierce the skies. THE OLD MEN O LD AND ALONE, SIT WE, Caged, riddle-rid men; Lost to earth’s ‘Listen!’ and ‘See!’ Thought’s ‘Wherefore?’ and ‘When?’ Only far memories stray Of a past once lovely, but now Wasted and faded away, Like green leaves from the bough. Vast broods the silence of night, The ruinous moon Lifts on our faces her light, Whence all dreaming is gone. We speak not; trembles each head; In their sockets our eyes are still; Desire as cold as the dead; Without wonder or will. And One, with a lanthorn, draws near, At clash with the moon in our eyes: ‘Where art thou?’ he asks: ‘I am here,’ One by one we arise. And none lifts a hand to withhold A friend from the touch of that foe: Heart cries unto heart, ‘Thou art old!’ Yet reluctant, we go. THE FOOL’S SONG N EVER, NO, NEVER, listen too long, To the chattering wind in the willows, the night bird’s song. ’Tis sad in sooth to lie under the grass, But none too gladsome to wake and grow cold where life’s shadows pass. Dumb the old Toll-Woman squats, And, for every green copper battered and worn, doles out Nevers and Nots. I know a Blind Man, too, Who with a sharp ear listens and listens the whole world through. Oh, sit we snug to our feast, With platter and finger and spoon—and good victuals at least. THE DREAMER O THOU who giving helm and sword, Gav’st, too, the rusting rain, And starry dark’s all tender dews To blunt and stain: Out of the battle I am sped, Unharmed, yet stricken sore; A living shape ’mid whispering shades On Lethe’s shore. No trophy in my hands I bring, To this sad, sighing stream, The neighings and the trumps and cries Were but a dream—a dream. Traitor to life, of life betrayed— O, of thy mercy deep, A dream my all, the all I ask Is sleep. MOTLEY C OME, Death, I’d have a word with thee; And thou, poor Innocency; And Love—a lad with broken wing; And Pity, too: The Fool shall sing to you, As Fools will sing. Ay, music hath small sense, And a tune’s soon told, And Earth is old, And my poor wits are dense; Yet have I secrets,—dark, my dear, To breathe you all: Come near. And lest some hideous listener tells, I’ll ring my bells. They’re all at war!— Yes, yes, their bodies go ’Neath burning sun and icy star To chaunted songs of woe, Dragging cold cannon through a mire Of rain and blood and spouting fire, The new moon glinting hard on eyes Wide with insanities! Hush!... I use words I hardly know the meaning of; And the mute birds Are glancing at Love From out their shade of leaf and flower, Trembling at treacheries Which even in noonday cower. Heed, heed not what I said Of frenzied hosts of men, More fools than I, On envy, hatred fed, Who kill, and die— Spake I not plainly, then? Yet Pity whispered, ‘Why?’ Thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go. Mine was not news for child to know, And Death—no ears hath. He hath supped where creep Eyeless worms in hush of sleep; Yet, when he smiles, the hand he draws Athwart his grinning jaws— Faintly the thin bones rattle, and—There, there; Hearken how my bells in the air Drive away care!... Nay, but a dream I had Of a world all mad. Not simple happy mad like me, Who am mad like an empty scene Of water and willow tree, Where the wind hath been; But that foul Satan-mad, Who rots in his own head, And counts the dead, Not honest one—and two— But for the ghosts they were, Brave, faithful, true, When head in air, In Earth’s clear green and blue Heaven they did share With Beauty who bade them there.... There, now! Death goes— Mayhap I’ve wearied him. Ay, and the light doth dim, And asleep ’s the rose, And tired Innocence In dreams is hence.... Come, Love, my lad, Nodding that drowsy head, ’Tis time thy prayers were said! TO E. T.: 1917 Y OU SLEEP TOO WELL—too far away, For sorrowing word to soothe or wound; Your very quiet seems to say How longed-for a peace you have found. Else, had not death so lured you on, You would have grieved—’twixt joy and fear— To know how my small loving son Had wept for you, my dear. ALEXANDER I T WAS THE GREAT ALEXANDER, Capped with a golden helm, Sate in the ages, in his floating ship, In a dead calm. Voices of sea-maids singing Wandered across the deep: The sailors labouring on their oars Rowed, as in sleep. All the high pomp of Asia, Charmed by that siren lay, Out of their weary and dreaming minds, Faded away. Like a bold boy sate their Captain, His glamour withered and gone, In the souls of his brooding mariners, While the song pined on. Time like a falling dew, Life like the scene of a dream Laid between slumber and slumber, Only did seem.... O Alexander, then, In all us mortals too, Wax thou not bold—too bold On the wave dark-blue! Come the calm, infinite night, Who then will hear Aught save the singing Of the sea-maids clear? FOR ALL THE GRIEF F OR all the grief I have given with words May now a few clear flowers blow, In the dust, and the heat, and the silence of birds, Where the lonely go. For the thing unsaid that heart asked of me Be a dark, cool water calling—calling To the footsore, benighted, solitary, When the shadows are falling. O, be beauty for all my blindness, A moon in the air where the weary wend, And dews burdened with loving-kindness In the dark of the end. FAREWELL W HEN I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes, Nor the rain make lamentation When the wind sighs; How will fare the world whose wonder Was the very proof of me? Memory fades, must the remembered Perishing be? Oh, when this my dust surrenders Hand, foot, lip, to dust again, May these loved and loving faces Please other men! May the rusting harvest hedgerow Still the Traveller’s Joy entwine, And as happy children gather Posies once mine. Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour. Let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou have paid thy utmost blessing; Since that all things thou wouldst praise Beauty took from those who loved them In other days.

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