Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME A BOX OF VIOLETS, by ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME A BOX OF VIOLETS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Nay, more than violets
Last Line: Bless thee, the giver.
Alternate Author Name(s): Q; Quiller-couch, A. T.
Subject(s): Flowers; Gardens & Gardening; Violets


NAY, more than violets
These thoughts of thine, friend!
Rather thy reedy brook—
Taw's tributary—
At midnight murmuring,
Descried them, the delicate
The dark-eyed goddesses,
There by his cressy bed
Dissolved and dreaming—
Dreams that distilled into dew
All the purple of night,
All the shine of a planet.

Whereat he whispered;
And they arising—
Of day's forget-me-nots
The duskier sisters—
Descended, relinquished
The orchard, the trout-pool,
Torridge and Tamar,
The Druid circles,
Sheepfolds of Dartmoor,
Granite and sandstone;
By Roughtor, Dozmarè,

Down the vale of the Fowey
Moving in silence,
Brushing the nightshade
By bridges cyclopean,
By Trevenna, Treverbyn,
Lewharne and Largin,
By Glynn, Lanhydrock,
Restormel, Lostwithiel,
Dark wood, dim water, dreaming town;
Down the vale of the Fowey
To the tidal water
Washing the feet
Of holy St. Winnow—
Each, in her exile
Musing the message,
Passed, as a starlit
Phanthom of Ruth from the land of the Moabite.

So they came,
Valley-born, valley-nurtured—
Came to the tideway
The jetties, the anchorage,
The salt wind piping,
Snoring in Equinox,
By ships at anchor,
By quays tormented,
Storm-bitten streets;
Came to The Haven
Crying, 'Ah, shelter us,
The strayed ambassodors,
Love's lost legation
On a comfortless coast!'

Nay, but a little sleep,
A little folding
Of petals to the lull
Of quiet rainfalls—
Here in my garden,
In angle sheltered
From north and east wind—
Softly shall recreate
The courage of charity,
Henceforth not to me only
Breathing the message.

Clean-breath'd Sirens!
Henceforth the mariner
Here in the fairway
Fetching—foul of keel,
Long-stray but fortunate—
Out of the fogs, the vast
Atlantic solitudes,
Shall, by the hawser-pin
Waiting the signal
Leave—go—anchor!
Scent the familiar,
The unforgettable
Fragrance of home;
So in a long breath
Bless all, unknowing:
Bless them, the violets,
Bless me, the gardener,
Bless thee, the giver.





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