The hours of the passion and other poems by Harriet Eleanor Hamilton-King |
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A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S JOURNEY |
 | The hours of the passion and other poems |  |
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A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S JOURNEY
A scorching Midsummer,—the parched-up land
Waits thirstily beneath the burning sky,
Burnished, without a cloud, day after day.
All the day long no living thing dares stir
For sultriness:—but now in the hot dusk
We take our way abroad. The air is full
Of fluttering moths, that brush against our hair
Silent and startling,—then the road winds on
Past cottage doors, in the red afterglow,
Each with its row of glittering lilies tall,
Solemn and bridal-white in multitudes,
The flowers of death:—then upwards to the height
Whence the whole ringed horizon shows the plain
Sweltering, and still alight beneath a dome
Of fading blue, that nearer to the earth
Smokes in a dull and angry haze of heat.
And all along the verge there runs a ridge
Of wooded heights, and in their midst a Tower:—
The topmost Tower of England in the South,
The Tower of Winds and Angels unto me,
Which once I climbed to, clinging to thy arm:
When suddenly the whole Atlantic burst
In one resistless sweep of rushing air,
And back I turned, unable to withstand.
But thou, my Angel, whom the Winds of Heaven
Hurt not, being soon to mingle amongst them,
Didst linger to take pleasure in their play.
Waits thirstily beneath the burning sky,
Burnished, without a cloud, day after day.
All the day long no living thing dares stir
For sultriness:—but now in the hot dusk
We take our way abroad. The air is full
Of fluttering moths, that brush against our hair
Silent and startling,—then the road winds on
Past cottage doors, in the red afterglow,
Each with its row of glittering lilies tall,
Solemn and bridal-white in multitudes,
The flowers of death:—then upwards to the height
Whence the whole ringed horizon shows the plain
Sweltering, and still alight beneath a dome
Of fading blue, that nearer to the earth
Smokes in a dull and angry haze of heat.
And all along the verge there runs a ridge
Of wooded heights, and in their midst a Tower:—
The topmost Tower of England in the South,
The Tower of Winds and Angels unto me,
Which once I climbed to, clinging to thy arm:
When suddenly the whole Atlantic burst
In one resistless sweep of rushing air,
And back I turned, unable to withstand.
But thou, my Angel, whom the Winds of Heaven
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Didst linger to take pleasure in their play.
Then downward turns the road, and we alight,
And pass into the forest's open glades,
A floor, a roof, a wall of deepest green.
Down, down we plunge, till the descent has found
A dell of foxgloves—foxgloves everywhere
In ranks luxuriant, higher than our heads,
All their full bells untouched and magical,
The lost and ancient music of the earth,
Chiming unheard the dirges of the young:—
As with the foxglove dies the youth of the year,
And to its burial crowds the white wild rose.—
A purple hiding-place in fairyland,
Where we walk buried, and the deep moss grows
Cool to our feet from moisture underground;
For we have come near to the streamlet's bed,
Now empty in the torrid Midsummer.
And pass into the forest's open glades,
A floor, a roof, a wall of deepest green.
Down, down we plunge, till the descent has found
A dell of foxgloves—foxgloves everywhere
In ranks luxuriant, higher than our heads,
All their full bells untouched and magical,
The lost and ancient music of the earth,
Chiming unheard the dirges of the young:—
As with the foxglove dies the youth of the year,
And to its burial crowds the white wild rose.—
A purple hiding-place in fairyland,
Where we walk buried, and the deep moss grows
Cool to our feet from moisture underground;
For we have come near to the streamlet's bed,
Now empty in the torrid Midsummer.
And in the deepest hollow of the hills
That soon we reach, suddenly stretches out
The long lake of these forest solitudes,
Without a bank or pathway of approach,
The thick woods hanging to the water's edge;
A silent, melancholy lake, whose end
Is lost in distance, winding down a chain
Of lonely lakes, unseen, unvisited,
The folded heart of this low-lying cleft,
On to the dim White Water. Then the road
In sharp ascent leads to the level land,
Which secret keeps th' embowered river ravine.
That soon we reach, suddenly stretches out
The long lake of these forest solitudes,
Without a bank or pathway of approach,
The thick woods hanging to the water's edge;
A silent, melancholy lake, whose end
Is lost in distance, winding down a chain
Of lonely lakes, unseen, unvisited,
The folded heart of this low-lying cleft,
On to the dim White Water. Then the road
In sharp ascent leads to the level land,
Which secret keeps th' embowered river ravine.
Darkness is deepening: for awhile on foot
We make our way between the forest walls.
The dry heath crackles underfoot; the sand
Is hot beneath it,—over and around
The moths in crowds are flitting; all things else
Are still as death, and heavy is the heat.
Too weary is the walking, and we mount,
And lying back are swiftly borne along,
Only the breathless darkness round us now.
But whither are we going, on a road
We have not travelled, and we cannot see?
It seemeth thus, as in a waking dream
Shall be the journey's end;—that we arrive
At midnight, still in darkness, and shall find
A mansion dim and silent, and shall pass
Through open doors, until we come into
A spacious antique chamber, vaulted high,
With one great oriel window at the end,
Flooded with moonbeams, making clear the night.
And in the moonlight glimmers white a bath
Of marble inlaid in the floor, and brimmed
With water cool, and near at hand lie robes
Of white lawn, filmy as the gossamer;
And half in shadow is a table set
With piled-up strawberries, and goblets pure
Of frosted crystal, sparkling flagons filled
With water cold from subterranean springs;
And soft white beds with finest linen spread;
And sleep, cool, quiet sleep;—sweet is the sleep
We haste to in this Hostelry of Dream.
We make our way between the forest walls.
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Is hot beneath it,—over and around
The moths in crowds are flitting; all things else
Are still as death, and heavy is the heat.
Too weary is the walking, and we mount,
And lying back are swiftly borne along,
Only the breathless darkness round us now.
But whither are we going, on a road
We have not travelled, and we cannot see?
It seemeth thus, as in a waking dream
Shall be the journey's end;—that we arrive
At midnight, still in darkness, and shall find
A mansion dim and silent, and shall pass
Through open doors, until we come into
A spacious antique chamber, vaulted high,
With one great oriel window at the end,
Flooded with moonbeams, making clear the night.
And in the moonlight glimmers white a bath
Of marble inlaid in the floor, and brimmed
With water cool, and near at hand lie robes
Of white lawn, filmy as the gossamer;
And half in shadow is a table set
With piled-up strawberries, and goblets pure
Of frosted crystal, sparkling flagons filled
With water cold from subterranean springs;
And soft white beds with finest linen spread;
And sleep, cool, quiet sleep;—sweet is the sleep
We haste to in this Hostelry of Dream.
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