Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SHEPHERD'S HUT, by ALFRED DE VIGNY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SHEPHERD'S HUT, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: If thy heart, groaning under life's rude burden
Last Line: Nor will I cry to thee, in love's despite.
Subject(s): Nature; Pain; Suffering; Misery


If thy heart, groaning under life's rude burden,
Writhe in its faring like an eagle hurt
Trailing a weary way with proud wing shattered,
Under a doom of grievous pain inert;
If it but beat when its red tide is streaming,
If there be hidden from all sight or seeming
Love's light that once for it the horizon girt;

If thy soul, shackled as my own sad soul is,
By fetters and long bitter fare fordone,
On the bare galley let the oar lie nerveless,
Lean wanly o'er the wave and weep alone;
If o'er the tide to unknown havens steering,
At thy bare shoulder's sight thou shudder, fearing
The brand of felony clear-scarred thereon;

And if thy body stirred by secret passion,
Shy and aloof be dreadful of man's gaze;
If with thy beauty thou wouldst dwell serenely
Withdrawn unsullied from the world's foul ways;
If thy speech wither in the wind of slander,
If thy brow redden lest thy fair thought wander
In some lewd mind that, seeing and hearing, slays;

Then get thee hence, leave all the towns behind thee,
Nor halt on ways that soil the feet that fare;
From thought's high pinnacle behold our cities
Man's bane, foredoomed to endless serfage there;
With fields and forests for thy sacred homing
Free as the sea round darkened islands foaming,
Cross the sweet fields, flow'r-laden, without care.

Nature awaits thee in her solemn silence,
And round thy feet the lawny mists exhale,
As far away the sun's last sigh sets swaying
The lovely lilies like swung censers frail;
The forest aisles grow dim; on waters dimmer
The willow sets unsullied leaves a-shimmer
And the far mountain hides in evening's veil.

The friendly dusk now slumbers in the valley,
On the green herbage and the golden lawn,
Below shy rushes where hid founts are welling,
Below the dreamy woodland far withdrawn;
It flies, and furtive thro' the wild vine shivers;
It throws a grey shroud o'er the steamy rivers,
And leaves the flowers of night half fain of dawn.

On mine own hill the heath is rank, and hunters
The ling and bracken scarce can trample through;
High on their brows the lofty wands that waver
Shelter the shepherd and the stranger too.
Hide there thy love and thy divine misdoing;
If grass be scanty, or the bent blades blowing,
Forth will I bring my Shepherd's Hut to view.

Smoothly it runs upon its four wheels stirring,
With roof flush with thy brow and eyes, my guest;
Thy cheeks' own colour as of palest coral
Tinting the night-car on its noiseless quest.
Its sill is scented and its alcove roomy
Where we shall find a silent couch and gloomy,
Flow'r-heapt for our two heads grown fain of rest.

I shall see, if thou wilt, the snowy moorlands,
Or lands whereon love's star her light doth pour,
Or those wind-ravaged, or where snows beleaguer,
Or where the dark Pole hardens to the core.
We will together as fair chance may beckon.
Of time or of the world why should I reckon?
All shall be lovely that thine eyes adore.

She said, "I am the empty stage grown passive,
From tremors of the mummer's tread immune;
My emerald stairs, my courts of alabaster,
My marble columns by the Gods were hewn;
I hear nor shout nor sigh; nor, calm or stormy,
Feel the slow human comedy pass o'er me,
That looks to heav'n in vain for bane or boon.

"Onward I roll, unseeing and unheeding,
By ant-heaps or the swarming hives of men;
For me alike their dwelling and their ashes;
The names of nations are beyond my ken
Who bare them. I am grave whom men call mother;
In Winter's icy shroud your lives I smother,
Nor heed your worship when Spring come agen.

"Before you I was lovely with sweet odour,
Far on the wind my streaming locks flung sheer;
On skiey pathways immemorial faring;
On the smooth axle of a God-like sphere
Spun onward. After you thro' void space wheeling,
Still shall I soar aloof from human feeling,
With brow and breast that cleave the all silent air."

Thus spake she with her proud voice full of sorrow,
And in my heart I hated her, and knew
Our blood was in her tides; her fields and forests
Were fed with our own marrow as with dew.
I said unto my eyes towards her yearning,
"Gaze otherwhere, and weep not for her spurning;
Give thy love only where thou canst not rue."

Who twice shall know thy tender grace and gesture,
Mild angel, and most mournful with thy sighs?
Who like to thee shall bring such blissful solace
As thou from the wan radiance of thine eyes?
So sweet to us the swaying of thy slant face is,
So sweet to us thy prone lithe body's graces,
And thy pure smile in love's or sorrow's guise.

Live on cold Nature, and for us rekindle
Forehead and feet with thy predestined might;
Live and disdain, since thou art as a Goddess,
Meek man who over thee hath kingly right.
More than thy kingdom and thy thriftless glory
I hold the grandeur of our human story;
Nor will I cry to thee, in love's despite.





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