 | The complete poems of S. Weir Mitchell |  |
THE GARDEN
Vernon Castle of a Morning in August 1588
Elizabeth Vernonwalks amidst the flowers, an open letter in her hand.
“Oh, the sweet morning and the sweeter news
That make me doubly glad! Ah, who would lose
The hours of grief that won this leave to smile
Through one long careless day of joy, the while
I wait a larger joy! Our smiles and tears
Have many meanings. I could weep to-day
For very joy; and yesterday my fears
Fetched me strange laughter, though my life seemed gray
With age of longing. Oh, be glad with me,
Ye English roses! See, the morning sun
Asks for the lifted face of prayer. The sea,
God's sea, laughs with us; we have won—have won!”
That make me doubly glad! Ah, who would lose
The hours of grief that won this leave to smile
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I wait a larger joy! Our smiles and tears
Have many meanings. I could weep to-day
For very joy; and yesterday my fears
Fetched me strange laughter, though my life seemed gray
With age of longing. Oh, be glad with me,
Ye English roses! See, the morning sun
Asks for the lifted face of prayer. The sea,
God's sea, laughs with us; we have won—have won!”
Thus speaking, Elizabeth Vernon walks to and fro among the flowers, and sometimes pauses to shadow her eyes with her hand, that she may look across the river all a-glitter with the sun. But at last she kneels on the sod, and, laughing, cries:
“I must kiss someone, something. You, red rose,
Will never whisper it if I suppose
You are my Philip. Kiss me, kiss me quick!
These be the lips I love. I'll shut my eyes—
So not to know it is not he. I'm sick
For kisses. Ah, but when he comes, and tries
To kiss me, I'll be maidenly and wise,
And say, Fie on you, sir!”
Will never whisper it if I suppose
You are my Philip. Kiss me, kiss me quick!
These be the lips I love. I'll shut my eyes—
So not to know it is not he. I'm sick
For kisses. Ah, but when he comes, and tries
To kiss me, I'll be maidenly and wise,
And say, Fie on you, sir!”
Philip Vernon, coming of a sudden through the hedge:
“Sweetheart, take this!
I'll play rose-lover with you, till I kiss
You one red rose with blushes. He who brings
A galleon-freight of kisses, each with wings
Of gathered honor, cannot beggared be.”
I'll play rose-lover with you, till I kiss
You one red rose with blushes. He who brings
A galleon-freight of kisses, each with wings
Of gathered honor, cannot beggared be.”
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My love! my lord!
Philip Vernon.
One kiss from thee outweighs
A hundred given. Not all love's usury,
Not all the interest of unnumbered days,
Can keep us even.
Elizabeth Vernon.
There's for ransom, see!
Oh, I'll be honest. Tell me of the fight.
Indeed, I prayed for you both morn and night.
Now, tell me of it. Did we hear aright?
Hast seen the Queen?
Philip Vernon.
Aye, and she mocked me, too,
Because these lands are cumbered, love, with you.
I had her pardon also. My Lord Grey
Takes more to kill him than most traitors may.
Elizabeth Vernon.
The packet reached the chancellor?
Philip Vernon.
You did well
To send it. I have no long tale to tell.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Sit near me, Philip. Now, the battle, pray!
Philip Vernon.
Oh, I'll be brief; I've other things to say.
We caught them in the Channel. Day by day
We hung about them, like bold dogs that tease
Great lumbering bullocks; left them at our ease,
Then bit again, until each bloody deck,
Mast, sail, and timber, shorn to shattered wreck,
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Northward they drifted, and a storm that lowered
Broke on their ruin, pitiless and swift.
The gray fog closed about them like a pall;
The great seas, leaping, smote them, and the lift
Grew dark above them. One bleak funeral,
They passed from sight of man. For us, we fled
To 'scape the storm's worst peril.
All is said
That may not till the morrow be delayed.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Ah, never day like this has England seen!
Come, drink a cup to England and the Queen:
I'll cast my love within the bowl.
Philip Vernon.
That pearl
Shall jewel every cup of life.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Sweet Earl,
Thy people grow impatient. Hark! the chimes
Ring in their new lord, and these gladder times.
| The complete poems of S. Weir Mitchell | |