Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ADIEU TO HAIZETTES, by PAUL FORT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ADIEU TO HAIZETTES, by                    
First Line: Two glutted barrows we despatch, filled with our things. We cannot
Last Line: The weather-cock upon the thatch utters a cry so desolate!
Subject(s): Farewell; Home; Parting


Two glutted barrows we despatch, filled with our things. We cannot wait. The
weather-cock above the thatch utters a cry so desolate!

We go . . . to each his mode. . . . For me, sobs bow my head, my eyes are wet.
Then fare thee well our, my Haizettes! Cottage, we must depart from thee!

Carlegle, whose talent 'tis to draw, arrives and claims the right to make us to
a more modest cot betake us, 'neath narrower thatch of barley-straw.

'Tis not his fault. I'd but to go sooner than he the rent to pay. I did not.
What regrets today! He takes tomorrow my chateau,

our happy cottage of content where such sweet dreams we used to find. There,
with his mocking temperament, he'll sketch cartoons of all mankind,

and on the wicker chair repose, sole witness of his labours ah! and, when his
task has reached its close, sleep in our bed like a pasha.

But will he wake at night, half-dead with dread, to hear upon the blast the
Ghostly Huntsman thundering past -- depart, and after, die of laughter!

And at morning, towards the dewy lea bent from the threshold, will he see thee,
bare, thy hair in shimmering rout? Such sights he'll have to do without.

When on the earth sweet evening falls, like a twin radiance will he see softly
traverse the cottage walls the angels, Fervour and Mystery?

Door locked and windows shuttered tight, will he have our countless dreams, or
chance to see this Lily, tall and white, 'twixt us and all the shades adance?

Rules underlie the draughtsman's art. But on this day with sorrows full, he
strikes us on our anguished heart with an imaginary rule,

this good Carlegle, this worthy man, whom may there save from Fortune's rigour
Saint Bamboulibougnabounigger, patron of every artisan.

Two glutted barrows we despatch . . . there's no recourse . . . we cannot wait.
The weather-cock upon the thatch utters a cry so desolate!





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