 | The Autumn Garden |  |
I. The Peninsula
The lilac ling my bed, I lay
In that entranced half-isle of ours,—
That Sirmio of a northern bay,
Paven with tiny leaves and flowers;—
Ancestral birches down the blue
Their waterfalls of silver threw.
In that entranced half-isle of ours,—
That Sirmio of a northern bay,
Paven with tiny leaves and flowers;—
Ancestral birches down the blue
Their waterfalls of silver threw.
Between their gnarl'd and papery boughs
The radiant lake burned in the sun;
I looked out of their fairy house,
And watched the waves break one by one—
Reverberant turquoise shattered there
Between green earth and golden air.
The radiant lake burned in the sun;
I looked out of their fairy house,
And watched the waves break one by one—
Reverberant turquoise shattered there
Between green earth and golden air.
Hot in the breeze, the distant pines
Cast wafts of spice across our shore;
And unseen rosemaries gave signs,
And secret junipers their store;
From every flower and herb and tree
Sabæan odours sighed to me.
Cast wafts of spice across our shore;
And unseen rosemaries gave signs,
And secret junipers their store;
From every flower and herb and tree
Sabæan odours sighed to me.
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And all things sang, too,—the soft wind,
The birch-leaves' petulant, shy sound,
The lapping waters, and the thinned
Sleek tufts of autumn leafage browned,
The cow-bell far away, that fills
All corners of the folded hills.
The birch-leaves' petulant, shy sound,
The lapping waters, and the thinned
Sleek tufts of autumn leafage browned,
The cow-bell far away, that fills
All corners of the folded hills.
Thus odour, song, and colour wrought
A magic raiment for my soul:
All the dark garments pain had brought
To robe me for the masque of dole
Fell from me straightway; I was clad
As angels when God makes them glad.
A magic raiment for my soul:
All the dark garments pain had brought
To robe me for the masque of dole
Fell from me straightway; I was clad
As angels when God makes them glad.
Blue, golden-green, and silver-white—
Were these not hues for happiness?
In our elysian island bright,
Round the worn pilgrim still they press;
They dress him for the world anew,
These spirits of white and green and blue.
Were these not hues for happiness?
In our elysian island bright,
Round the worn pilgrim still they press;
They dress him for the world anew,
These spirits of white and green and blue.
And so for hours I laid my head
Upon the lilac spires of ling,
And thus, by Beauty islanded,
I heard the lustral waters sing,
And watched the low wind stir the gold
And turn the quavering birch-leaves cold.
Upon the lilac spires of ling,
And thus, by Beauty islanded,
I heard the lustral waters sing,
And watched the low wind stir the gold
And turn the quavering birch-leaves cold.
Næset i Bygland,
August 4.
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