Laurella and other poems by John Todhunter |
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 | Laurella and other poems |  |
135
IN SEPTEMBER.
Where lurk the merry elves of the Autumn now,
In this bright breezy month of equinox?
Among tanned bracken on the mountain's brow?
Or deep in the heather, tufted round white rocks
On a wild moor, where heath-bells wither slow,
Twined with late-blooming furze—a home of grouse?
By river alders? Or on stubbly plains?
Bound not their kingdom so:
They follow Beauty's train, of all her house
Gay pensioners, till not one leaf remains.
In this bright breezy month of equinox?
Among tanned bracken on the mountain's brow?
Or deep in the heather, tufted round white rocks
On a wild moor, where heath-bells wither slow,
Twined with late-blooming furze—a home of grouse?
By river alders? Or on stubbly plains?
Bound not their kingdom so:
They follow Beauty's train, of all her house
Gay pensioners, till not one leaf remains.
The splendour of the year is not yet dead;
After cold showers the sun shines hotly still,
To dry the grass and kiss the trembling head
Of each wind-shaken hairbell on the hill.
The spirit has room to ramble far and wide
Through all the breezy circles of the sky,
To shoot on silvery beams from southern clouds
Where sunlight loves to hide,
Or brood upon the vale's blue mystery,
Whence routed mists fly trooping, crowds on crowds.
After cold showers the sun shines hotly still,
To dry the grass and kiss the trembling head
Of each wind-shaken hairbell on the hill.
The spirit has room to ramble far and wide
Through all the breezy circles of the sky,
To shoot on silvery beams from southern clouds
Where sunlight loves to hide,
Or brood upon the vale's blue mystery,
Whence routed mists fly trooping, crowds on crowds.
136
Heaven hath its symphonies! What tones combine
To swell the cadenced chords of luminous grey
That change upon the abysmal hyaline,
Whose glimpses sweet throb to the azure play
Of an ethereal melody, tender as eyes
That shine through tears of unrequited love,
Pure as the petals of forget-me-nots!
Such unheard harmonies
The deaf ears of Beethoven smote from above
Through vision—filled with heaven his inky blots.
To swell the cadenced chords of luminous grey
That change upon the abysmal hyaline,
Whose glimpses sweet throb to the azure play
Of an ethereal melody, tender as eyes
That shine through tears of unrequited love,
Pure as the petals of forget-me-nots!
Such unheard harmonies
The deaf ears of Beethoven smote from above
Through vision—filled with heaven his inky blots.
As Ceres, when she sought her Proserpine,
Slow moved, majestically sad—a wreath
Of funeral flowers above those eyes divine—
The widowed year draws ripely to its death.
The moist air swoons in stilléd sultriness
Between the gales; save when a boding sigh
Shivers the crisp and many-hued tree-tops,
Or the low wind's caress
Wakes the sere whispers of fall'n leaves that lie,
Breathing a dying odour through the copse.
Slow moved, majestically sad—a wreath
Of funeral flowers above those eyes divine—
The widowed year draws ripely to its death.
The moist air swoons in stilléd sultriness
Between the gales; save when a boding sigh
Shivers the crisp and many-hued tree-tops,
Or the low wind's caress
Wakes the sere whispers of fall'n leaves that lie,
Breathing a dying odour through the copse.
A few pale flowers of Summer linger late
For languid butterflies, wind tost, that leave
Their garden asters, tempted to their fate
By the wild bees; stray blooms of woodbine grieve
On their close-twisted stems in brambly dells—
Haunt of the cottage-children's much delight
On sunny afternoons; by hedge and stream
Tremble the delicate bells
Of bindweed, bride-like, with its wreath of white
Moving things withering of new Springs to dream.
For languid butterflies, wind tost, that leave
Their garden asters, tempted to their fate
By the wild bees; stray blooms of woodbine grieve
On their close-twisted stems in brambly dells—
137
On sunny afternoons; by hedge and stream
Tremble the delicate bells
Of bindweed, bride-like, with its wreath of white
Moving things withering of new Springs to dream.
Soon the last field is gleaned, safe harvested
The tardiest-ripening grain, and all the dale
Made glad with far-seen stacks; barn floors are spread
With golden sheaves, sport of the clanging flail;
In sunny orchards the mossed apple-trees
Bend with their ruddy load, and wasp-gnawn pears
Tumble at every gust; the berried lanes
Blush with their bright increase;
Brown acorns rustle down; and in their lairs
Deft-handed squirrels hoard their daintiest gains.
The tardiest-ripening grain, and all the dale
Made glad with far-seen stacks; barn floors are spread
With golden sheaves, sport of the clanging flail;
In sunny orchards the mossed apple-trees
Bend with their ruddy load, and wasp-gnawn pears
Tumble at every gust; the berried lanes
Blush with their bright increase;
Brown acorns rustle down; and in their lairs
Deft-handed squirrels hoard their daintiest gains.
So the month wanes, till the new-risen moon
Shines on chill torpor of white mist—stretched o'er
Low-lying pastures, like a weird lagune
In a dim land of ghosts; and evermore
Through the sad wood the wind sighs wailfully,
And great owls hoot from boughs left desolate,
When first the morn finds skeleton-leaves made fair
With frosted tracery;
And then must all things frail yield to their fate—
October strikes the chord of their despair!
Shines on chill torpor of white mist—stretched o'er
Low-lying pastures, like a weird lagune
In a dim land of ghosts; and evermore
Through the sad wood the wind sighs wailfully,
And great owls hoot from boughs left desolate,
When first the morn finds skeleton-leaves made fair
With frosted tracery;
And then must all things frail yield to their fate—
October strikes the chord of their despair!
| Laurella and other poems | |