Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE GARDENER OF SINOPE, by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE GARDENER OF SINOPE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Where loud the pontine billows roar
Last Line: Two claimed a murderer's reward.
Alternate Author Name(s): Duclaux, Madame Emile; Darmesteter, Mary; Robinson, A. Mary F.
Subject(s): Gardens & Gardening; Murder


WHERE loud the Pontine billows roar
And lash the Paphlagonian shore;
Where first the yellow stretch of sands
Breaks into green and waving sheen
Of growing corn and meadow lands;
There, nestling grass and sea between,
The little town Sinope stands.
A mile beyond the western gate,
One garden broke the desolate
Waste reach of wind-swept, briny shore --
A garden always green and fair
With companies of roses there,
And lilies maiden-white and tall.
And in that place there dwelt of yore
Phocas, an aged gardener.
He had his house within the wall,
And rarely left the garden space,
Saving to do some deed of grace;
Little he spoke, and, if at all,
Mere words of greeting and farewell;
Yet any looking on his face
Would need no second glance to tell
How great a soul lay secret there,
And in his voice there rang a spell
Of consolation and of prayer;
And all who knew him loved him well.
The people loved him. But the hearts
Of tyrants have no sense of love,
Their natures keep no pulse thereof.
Yet have they passions in their blood:
Sharp fears, suspicion, and the smarts
Of pride misprised, and subtle darts
Of envy, petty malices,
And mean revenges born of these
That breed and breed, a deadly brood....

So when it chanced the governor
Of all those Paphlagonian lands,
Came once along the windy shore
To bless some Temple in the sands,
And heard how Phocas took his ease
At home on feasts and holidays.
Heeding no gods or goddesses,
As giving neither blame or praise
To priest or vestal -- but instead
Worked in his garden, prayed, or read,
Tended the sick, buried the dead,
And, though he never sacrificed
To any god in heaven or hell,
Made all his life acceptable
To one dead man, a criminal, Christ --
The governor, hearing of these things,
Hated this gardener; for a life
With love and prayer for soaring wings,
And scented through with innocent flowers,
Was sore rebuke to his own hours
With cunning, lust and malice rife.
So, having found where Phocas dwelt,
The lowliest of Christ's followers,
He hired two privy murderers,
Who often in such times as these
Have rid him of his enemies;
And, having bade them go, he felt
Merry, and supped and slept at ease.

The two hired murderers went their way
That night, towards the quiet place
Where Phocas dwelt. Yet had not they
Gone half a furlong from the gate,
Along the woody, desolate,
Wild country, when the open space
Grew thick with storm and white with hail,
Rain that the wind rent as a veil,
And lightning, till the thunder drowned
Their voices, crying as they found
The flooding sea at their feet. Aghast
They stumbled, harried by the blast,
Torn by the hail, half blind with fire,
Weary with baffling waves that higher
And colder crept at their knees. And still
The storm raged on and did not tire,
The storm raged on and knew no law.

At last, half dead with fear, they saw
Far off, dim shining on the hill,
A light that was no levin-light,
Steadier far and far less bright;
And, carrying it, an ancient man
Walked slowly towards them. As he came
The spent storm slackened, and the flame
Faded. "'Tis Zeus, our guardian!"
Said one; the other cried, "All hail,
Poseidon, ruler of seas!" But he
They spoke to merely smiled, and said
Half sighing, "Much these gods avail!
Come to my house, for verily
Ye have great need of rest and bread."
And, turning up the hill with them,
He led them through a pleasant field
Of yellowing corn, until they came
To a wide garden full of grass
And flowering shrubs, and trees that yield
Sweet fruit for eating, and a plot
Of summer flowers among them was
Where, past the garden, stood a cot
Of wattles, with a fountain nigh;
And, entering in, the weary men
Sank down in anguish, like to die.

But Phocas spread fresh rushes then
And let them on the rushes lie,
And gave them bread and fruit to eat
With wine for drinking, clear and sweet.
And when at last they sank to sleep,
Buried in slumber sound and deep,
The gardener rose and left the house
And stood beneath his apple-trees,
And watched the planets in the boughs
Like heavenly fruit, and felt the breeze
Breathe on him; somewhere out of sight
The thyme smelt, where his slow feet trod
Along the grass; all round the night
Compassed him like the love of God.

Then Phocas slept not, but he dreamed.
All round him was a stir of wings
And raiment and soft feet it seemed;
A shine and music of heavenly things;
A light of faces, a shimmer of hair,
And heavenly maidens round him there.
Dorothy, crowned with roses, stooped
To pluck a rose from his red-rose tree;
White-rose Cecily, where there drooped
A snowy rosebud, tenderly
Laid it inside her music book.
Then Agnes took an olive bough
And bound it crown-wise round her brow,
While Margaret all the rest forsook
For daisies in the grass to look.
Our Lady Mary herself came down
To gather lilies for a crown
And sent her angel-messenger
Where Phocas, all bewildered, was.
Thus spake he to the gardener:
"All the flowers thy garden has
That be chiefly sweet and fair
Gather them to make a wreath,
Many a fragrant wreath and rare,
To bring with thee to Paradise -- "
Then all they vanished from his eyes
And Phocas felt the dark like Death --

Thereupon he took his spade
And underneath the pleasant shade
Of apple boughs a grave he made.
When his gravemaking was done
There was some time till rise of sun,
Till then he walked amid his flowers,
The friends of many summer hours,
And bade farewell to every one.
And from all his flowers he chose
Bluest violet, reddest rose,
Peonies and Aaron-rod,
Pinks and wallflowers, columbines,
Ferns and tendrils of wild vines,
And lilies for the mother of God.
And having chosen and woven them
To many a wreath and anadem,
He laid them in the grave, and went
Back to his house, at peace, content.
But when he entered at the door
A pang ran through his heart, because
He knew so well the roof, the floor,
The home-made walls, the little flaws
In workmanship, the friendly air
Of all the things that made him there
A home more dear than palaces;
For the last time he saw all these.

He checked the sigh; spread on the board
Of meat and wine his slender hoard,
And roused his sleeping guests, who lay
Still on the mat at break of day.
They, being aroused, fell to and eat
Amain and drank right thirstily
The rustic feast before them set
And Phocas went and brought them fruit,
Honey, and cakes of wheat to boot.
And, when at last their feasting ends,
He saith: "I fain would ask ye, friends,
What errand took ye on the road
That only leads to my abode?"
The younger guest laughed out -- "Not you --
Not to seek such as you we came,
But some foul Christian -- what's his name? --
May Charon take him and his crew!"

"Nay, friend (the elder said), we bore
A message from the governor
To one called Phocas. Know ye him?"

Then before Phocas day grew dim
And Death came surging in his ears
Because the worst of all his fears
Grew plain before him. Quietly
He rose and answered: "I am he!"

"By Zeus, the god of strangers, then,"
Shouted the younger of the men,
"Get hence, and quickly, I pray you, fly!"
The elder said -- "What, overbold,
Thou knowest well that thou and I
Must answer for him? Let him die!
Better he than us, for he is old..."
Whereat the younger said, "Outside
Last night in the cold we had surely died,
But that this gardener succoured us.
I will not slay him."
"Yet for us"
(The elder spake) "the dreadful night
And cruel storm and lightning bright
Were safer than our ruler's hate."

Here Phocas answered, "Do not wait,
But make an end, and quickly. I
Have God's sure warrant I shall die.
Slay me and fear not. Know that death
Gives all life only promiseth;
No Christian fears to die. But this
I ask you: lay me in the grave
Outside, where the apple-orchard is.
Now make an end; I pardon you.
O Christ, my Saviour, I pray Thee, save
These men that know not what they do."
Then Phocas led them to the shade
Of apple boughs, and on the sward
Awhile he knelt. The younger prayed
And wept; the elder drew his sword,
Struck at the reverent, bowed head
Once, twice, and Phocas lay there dead.

One brought back the bloody sword,
Two claimed a murderer's reward.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net