Come to the park they say is dead, and you
Will see the glint of smiling shores beyond,
Pure clouds with rifts of unexpected blue
Diffuse a light on patterned path and pond.
Take the grey tinge of boxwood and the charm
Of burning-yellow birch. The wind is warm.
Late roses still have traces of their hue,
So kiss, and gather them, and wreathe them too.
Do not forget the asters—last of all—
And not the scarlet on the twists of vine,
And what is left of living green, combine
To shape a weightless image of the fall.
O urges from the years of youth which sweep
Me on in quest of her beneath these boughs,
Before you I must bend denying brows,
In lands of light my love is chained in sleep.
But if you sent her back, who in the flame
Of summer and the whir of Cupids would
Have shyly borne me company, I should
Acknowledge her this time with glad acclaim.
In wooden vats the ripened grapes ferment,
But I shall heap before her lavishly
What precious shoots and seeds are left to me
Of all the lovely yield the season lent.
Oh, hail and thanks to you who eased my stress,
Who lulled the constant clamour in my veins
With the expectance, dear, of your caress,
In weeks the glow of dying summer stains.
You came, and closer each to each we clung,
I shall devise a gentle word for you,
And praise you on our sunny paths as though
You were the very one for whom I long.
Up to the gate and back again we wander
Between the beeches with their gold and gloom,
And glancing through the bars, we pause to ponder
The almond tree beyond, in second bloom.
We search for benches where there is no shade
And alien voices never fret. In dreams
Your arm in mine and mine in yours is laid,
And we are bathed in long and mellow beams,
And feel beholden when the sunflakes glisten
Around us from the leaves alive with sound,
And only lift our heads to look and listen
When fruit, too rich with ripeness, taps the ground.
Around the pond where runnels bring
Their silent waters, let us stroll,
You calmly try to plumb my soul,
A wind ensnares us, soft as spring.
The leaves that yellow on the mould,
Diffuse an odour new and frail,
Echoing me, you subtly told
What pleased me in this picture-tale.
But do you know of wordless sighs
And bliss on a sublimer stage?
Down from the bridge, with shaded eyes
You watch the swans in slow cortege.
Beside the long and even hedge we lean.
Led by a Sister, rows of children pace,
Their voices rise in praise of heaven’s grace
In earthly accents, steadfast and serene.
We, who are bathed in evening’s latest rays,
Are frightened by your words, for you recall
That we were happy only when a wall
Like this was still enough to block our gaze.
Above the spring, niched in the wall, you bent
To cup the cool and dabble in the spray,
And yet it seems your fingers draw away
From the two lion heads with some constraint.
You wear a ring whose jewelled lustre dies.
I try to slip it off, but you invade
My very spirit with your misty eyes
In answer to the plea I could not hide.
Now do not lag in reaching for the boon
Of parting pomp before the turn of tide,
The clouds are grey, they swiftly mass and glide,
Perhaps the fog will be upon us soon.
A faint and fluted note from tattered tree
Tells you that goodness, wise and ultimate,
Will dip the land—before it learns the fate
Of freezing storms—in damask lambency.
The wasps with scales of golden-green are gone
From blooms that close their chalices. We row
Our boat around an archipelago
Of matted leaves in shades of bronze and fawn.
Today let us avoid the garden, for
As sometimes—unexplained and sudden—this
Elusive scent and lilting breath once more
Imbues us with a long forgotten bliss,
So that confronts us with reminding ghosts,
And grief that makes us tired and afraid.
Here from the window you can see how hosts
Of wind attacked the tree, how much is dead!
And from the gate whose iron lilies rust,
Birds light on lawns asleep in leafen stoles,
And others on the posts, in bitter frost,
Are sipping rain from empty flower-bowls.
I wrote it down: No more can I conceal
What, as a thought, no longer I can shun,
What I restrain, what you will never feel:
Our pilgrimage to joy is far from done!
And you, beside a tall and withered stalk,
Unfold my note. I stand apart and guess …
The sheet, which slipped from you, was white as chalk,
The loudest colour in the sallow grass.
Here in the spacious square of yellow stone
With fountains in the middle, though the day
Is gone, you still would like to talk and stay,
For brighter stars, you think, have never shone.
But keep from the basaltine bowl, it calls
For sepulture of faded bough and blade,
The wind is cooler where the moonlight falls
Than over there, where spruces throw their shade.
To spare you, I have let you guess askew
The reason why my sorrow is so deep.
I feel, when time has parted me from you,
You will not even haunt me in my sleep.
But when the snow has made the park a tomb,
Faint comfort, I believe, may still be told
By lovely residues: a note, a bloom,
In wintry silence, fathomless and cold.