Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BUCOLIC COMEDY: COUNTRY COUSIN: VARIATION 1, by EDITH SITWELL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BUCOLIC COMEDY: COUNTRY COUSIN: VARIATION 1, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: In summer when the rose-bushes
Last Line: But oh, the treasure heaven gains.
Subject(s): Hens; Death – Animals


Perrine
IN summer when the rose-bushes
Have names like all the sweetest hushes
In a bird's song, -- Susan, Hannah,
Martha, Harriet, and Rosannah,

Then round and flaxen blond leaves seem
Like country clouds of clouted cream,
And blossoms grow on trees above
As soft and thick as any dove.

The little girls go plucking sweet
Soft blooms with hands like coral feet
Of a piteous small sad bird
Upon a budding branch half heard,

While dew in trills, and dew in pearls,
Falls down upon their budding curls;
And ribbon blue as country streams,
Clear as a nightingale's song, dreams

Adown their frocks; each coral neck
Is sweet enough for birds to peck;
Their voices seem gold bells of corn,
The country winds pass by in scorn.

"How sweet," said Jeanne, "it would have been
If, when we reached our home, Perrine
Was there to greet us; golden grain
We'd give her, if she'd come again.

She was so faithful and so good, --
The humble hen we bought for food,
Then pitied, because she was lame
And was so trustful and so tame.

We nursed her back to health, and she
Became one of the family;
Of ragged robin was her bed,
Pink as her eyes; she laid her head

Down on this as she was bade;
Her crumpled crown looked limp and sad
And once she gave a little sigh,
But no complaint, when I was nigh.

And when for two weeks she had lain
There ill, she gained her strength again;
And then it seemed she found some beauty
In her humble lowly duty.

For each dawn, when through window-bars
Fade the straggling chickweed stars,
Perrine, forgetting her lame leg,
Would lay a sparkling golden egg.

For she had only this to give
And show her love; if those who live
With hopes of heaven ever gave
So much love, that, alone, could save

Our childish souls, made crystal clear,
And heaven itself would seem more dear.
But she is dead, our dear Perrine;
And if, tiptoe, we peep between

The thick leaves round the window bars,
Her eyes like pinkest campion stars
No more can peep at us, so kind
You'd think an angel swept her mind.

But if there is a heaven above
For hens who so must prove their love
I think that there, 'mid small wise flowers,
Perrine must pass the heavenly hours.

While there at last her five-point crown
Is gold, that crumpled, once lolled down . . .
But now Perrine is dead, her fame
Is everywhere, though she was lame, --

And great kings come with golden crowns,
Sit by our leafy fire, -- their towns
Deserting for Perrine's gold egg.
They'd try to buy it, steal it, beg.

Her beauty, white as any billow
Would wake King Canute from his pillow --
King Canute, lulled by his own snore,
Hearing the sound of wave no more

As he lies on a cloudy pillow
Beneath the weeping green willow."
So say the kings as they implore.
But dear Perrine lays eggs no more.

And in the briars of the cold wind
Where never rose blooms, hard, unkind,
I heard a pirate's voice that sighed;
His face seemed the horizons wide:

"I was a pirate, long ago;
But Time, if loaded with sweet snow
Of hawthorn, or with coral spray
Moves slowly, yet will die away.

Green honeycombs from flowers of limes,
The caverns, chiming sweet as rhymes
Along a flowery story seem;
We sailed by shores like some deep dream,

We sailed where every coral spray
Seemed like branches of pink may,
Fought Spanish ships whose patacoons
Seemed fireflies in the leafiest Junes.

But all these treasures I will leave,
And will not fret for them, or grieve,
If in these leafy lanes I find
An egg of Perrine good and kind."

Like housekeeping old hens that rustle
In a useful feather bustle,
From cottages, old women stoop --
Each cottage low as a hen-coop;

And the farmer and his old wife come
With candle-flames like a ripe plum.
"Why do your tears fall fast as rain,
When everything is all in vain?"

So now, by wintry hen-plumed seas,
In cackling grass the kings all freeze, --
The kings that their great castles leave
For dear Perrine . . . they weep and grieve

With gold crowns nodding in their dotage,
Where ragged flowers surround the cottage
(Perched upon a hen's thin legs).
Only the whining cold wind begs

Round each old king's long chequered dress,
And all the rest is nothingness.
Yet still our tears fall fast as rains . . .
But oh, the treasure Heaven gains.





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