The
Garden of Proserpine
by Algernon Charles
Swinburne |
| Here, where the world is quiet ; |
| Here, where all trouble
seems |
| Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot |
| In doubtful dreams of
dreams ; |
| I watch the green field growing |
| For reaping folk and sowing, |
| For harvest-time and mowing, |
A sleepy world of streams.
|
| I am tired of tears and laughter, |
| And men that laugh and
weep ; |
| Of what may come hereafter |
| For men that sow to reap : |
| I am weary of days and hours, |
| Blown buds of barren flowers, |
| Desires and dreams and powers |
And everything but sleep.
|
| Here life has death for neighbour, |
| And far from eye or ear |
| Wan waves and wet winds labour, |
| Weak ships and spirits
steer ; |
| They drive adrift, and whither |
| They wot not who make thither ; |
| But no such winds blow hither, |
And no such things grow
here.
|
| No growth of moor or coppice, |
| No heather-flower or
vine, |
| But bloomless buds of poppies, |
| Green grapes of
Proserpine, |
| Pale beds of blowing rushes |
| Where no leaf blooms or blushes |
| Save this whereout she crushes |
For dead men deadly wine.
|
| Pale, without name or number, |
| In fruitless fields of
corn, |
| They bow themselves and slumber |
| All night till light is
born ; |
| And like a soul belated, |
| In hell and heaven unmated, |
| By cloud and mist abated |
Comes out of darkness
morn.
|
| Though one were strong as seven, |
| He too with death shall
dwell, |
| Nor wake with wings in heaven, |
| Nor weep for pains in hell
; |
| Though one were fair as roses, |
| His beauty clouds and closes ; |
| And well though love reposes, |
In the end it is not well.
|
| Pale, beyond porch and portal, |
| Crowned with calm leaves,
she stands |
| Who gathers all things mortal |
| With cold immortal hands ; |
| Her languid lips are sweeter |
| Than love’s who fears to greet her |
| To men that mix and meet her |
From many times and lands.
|
| She waits for each and other, |
| She waits for all men born
; |
| Forgets the earth her mother, |
| The life of fruits and
corn ; |
| And spring and seed and swallow |
| Take wing for her and follow |
| Where summer song rings hollow |
And flowers are put to
scorn.
|
| There go the loves that wither, |
| The old loves with wearier
wings ; |
| And all dead years draw thither, |
| And all disastrous things
; |
| Dead dreams of days forsaken, |
| Blind buds that snows have shaken, |
| Wild leaves that winds have taken, |
Red strays of ruined
springs.
|
| We are not sure of sorrow, |
| And joy was never sure ; |
| To-day will die to-morrow ; |
| Time stoops to no man’s
lure ; |
| And love, grown faint and fretful, |
| With lips but half regretful |
| Sighs, and with eyes forgetful |
Weeps that no loves
endure.
|
| From too much love of living, |
| From hope and fear set
free, |
| We thank with brief thanksgiving |
| Whatever gods may be |
| That no life lives for ever ; |
| That dead men rise up never ; |
| That even the weariest river |
Winds somewhere safe to
sea.
|
| Then star nor sun shall waken, |
| Nor any change of light : |
| Nor sound of waters shaken, |
| Nor any sound or sight : |
| Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, |
| Nor days nor things diurnal ; |
| Only the sleep eternal |
In an eternal night.
|
| A.C. Swinburne |
Classic Poems |
| |
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[ A Forsaken Garden ] [ The Garden of Proserpine ] |
