Laurella and other poems by John Todhunter |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
ANASTASIS. |
| III. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| IV. |
| V. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | Laurella and other poems |  |
142
ANASTASIS.
How sweet the mother-touch of Nature's hand
Comes cool upon the feverish brow of thought,
When with dimm'd eyes and sluggard brain we stand,
Athirst for some lost blessedness, unsought
Long years—down-trodden in the onward rush
That sunders us from our child-hearted selves;
And with how glad amaze
We lave grown limbs where deathless founts outgush
In the fresh fields of youth, and genial elves
Lull us with mellower music of old days!
Comes cool upon the feverish brow of thought,
When with dimm'd eyes and sluggard brain we stand,
Athirst for some lost blessedness, unsought
Long years—down-trodden in the onward rush
That sunders us from our child-hearted selves;
And with how glad amaze
We lave grown limbs where deathless founts outgush
In the fresh fields of youth, and genial elves
Lull us with mellower music of old days!
New heavens, new earth; yet with what quiet sense
Of home long-lost; an afternoon, mayhap,
We wander forth in sullen impotence,
Dead, from dead labour—seeking but one scrap
Of Beauty's bread of life—more sick for all
The grimy squalor of suburban things;
When from some lucid womb
Of thronéd cloud that holds the heavens in thrall,
Glorious o'er dusty trees, an angel springs,
Strong-wing'd, to snatch us from the dismal tomb.
Of home long-lost; an afternoon, mayhap,
We wander forth in sullen impotence,
Dead, from dead labour—seeking but one scrap
Of Beauty's bread of life—more sick for all
The grimy squalor of suburban things;
When from some lucid womb
Of thronéd cloud that holds the heavens in thrall,
Glorious o'er dusty trees, an angel springs,
Strong-wing'd, to snatch us from the dismal tomb.
143
And we arise new-born, as now I do,
Crown'd with yon majesty of silver snows,
Gathered and gleaming from the abyss of blue.
The cloudland with its infinite repose
Follows me moving, tempted on and on
By rural glimpses—restful peeps—that yield
Glad harvest for sage eye:
Now 'tis a lane of hedgerow elms, anon
Stray'd sheep at browse about a pleasant field,
Or sun-smit poplars quivering in the sky.
Crown'd with yon majesty of silver snows,
Gathered and gleaming from the abyss of blue.
The cloudland with its infinite repose
Follows me moving, tempted on and on
By rural glimpses—restful peeps—that yield
Glad harvest for sage eye:
Now 'tis a lane of hedgerow elms, anon
Stray'd sheep at browse about a pleasant field,
Or sun-smit poplars quivering in the sky.
Subtly the changeful music of my mood
Deepens to riper perfectness, and fills
Earth and wide air with heaven. Lingering I brood
By the shrunk river's bed. Each moment thrills
With mystery of content, which gently blends
All in one trance—burnt stubbles bare of sheaves—
Clear shallows, with their cress
And glancing minnows—osiered river-beds
Shimmering in breeze and shine; even yellowing leaves,
Low whisper with suggested happiness.
Deepens to riper perfectness, and fills
Earth and wide air with heaven. Lingering I brood
By the shrunk river's bed. Each moment thrills
With mystery of content, which gently blends
All in one trance—burnt stubbles bare of sheaves—
Clear shallows, with their cress
And glancing minnows—osiered river-beds
Shimmering in breeze and shine; even yellowing leaves,
Low whisper with suggested happiness.
Through all his ways boon Autumn seems to smile—
O for the virgin lips of Perdita,
To name the flowers that on this fairy isle
Cluster and crowd! Here chaste Angelica
Queens it, in leaves superb and tufted crown,
O'er Michael's daises; and the rustling wind
Stirs, like a rising thought,
Pure bindweed bells tangled o'er brambles brown,
With sad long-purples (by Ophelia twined)
Mirror'd among the lush forget-me-not.
O for the virgin lips of Perdita,
To name the flowers that on this fairy isle
Cluster and crowd! Here chaste Angelica
144
O'er Michael's daises; and the rustling wind
Stirs, like a rising thought,
Pure bindweed bells tangled o'er brambles brown,
With sad long-purples (by Ophelia twined)
Mirror'd among the lush forget-me-not.
Once more the supreme splendour of the year:
I have invoked thee, Beauty, and my face
Shines from thine orisons: no burdock drear
Shall be my rosary in such holy place;
But coral loading of the mountain ash;
Or haws in bright profusion. Sauntering and slow
I move with homeward feet,
Glad with the village children as they splash
The sand pools. Shall I find the evening-glow
Warm on the starry jasmines of our street?
I have invoked thee, Beauty, and my face
Shines from thine orisons: no burdock drear
Shall be my rosary in such holy place;
But coral loading of the mountain ash;
Or haws in bright profusion. Sauntering and slow
I move with homeward feet,
Glad with the village children as they splash
The sand pools. Shall I find the evening-glow
Warm on the starry jasmines of our street?
| Laurella and other poems | |