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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TO THE FONT-GEORGES, by THEODORE FAULLAIN DE BANVILLE Poet's Biography First Line: Silent fields where I was glad Last Line: Silver flow'rs. Subject(s): Children; Fields; Love; Childhood; Pastures; Meadows; Leas | |||
SILENT fields where I was glad When I was a little lad, And my happy days did hold Threads of gold! O Font-Georges that once I knew Where the robin-redbreasts flew, And the nightingale also Singing low! Cottage white whereon the vine Long of stem and serpentine Drank the dew-drops with its leaves From the eaves! Crystal stream that once did roll Shadowed by the upright bole Of a hollow walnut-tree Steadfastly! Chilly streams and freshets who Feeling for the griefs I knew, Trembled in the time gone by At my cry! Pool where washerwomen were Full of song and void of care Beating on the board with might Linen white! Centenarian elder-tree Whose hoar forehead I did see, Thunder-stricken thrice and yet Firmly set! Arbours cool and copses wild In the grassy sward enisled, Where to every wind that played Poplars swayed! Heavy purple grapes that hung On the hillside vines and clung To the laden stems that went Earthward bent; Where when autumn-time came in In her merriment would spin Round the press the vintage-sprite At twilight! Briars whose ruddy fruit doth bleed, In the ravines thrown for seed, As of oaks the acorns are Sown afar! Osier-stems whose murmurs light Fill the ring-dove with affright, Willow blue, the far away's Sunset blaze! Boughs with ruddy cherries bent, Reaping girls surprised that went Wading where the waters fleet With bare feet! Leafy arbours, rills, and lanes; Smell of leaves and grasses; plains, Shades, and rocks that often drew Me to you! Rivers! forests! silence stilled! O what joys my childhood filled! My fond soul to you doth feel Far less leal Than to this poor joyless plot Where green leaf and rose are not, And the antique yew-trees raise Sombre sprays, To this sandy path that is Dearer for the untold bliss Of the hour when first I heard Her soft word! Where my love, with musing mind Gently her sweet self resigned, Leaning on my arm, and so Speaking low, Thoughts adrift, the while she tore Leaf by leaf the flower she bore With a heedless hand that left All bereft, At the hour when from the brink Trembling stars emerge, and link On the sky that shines or low'rs Silver flow'rs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HUNTING PHEASANTS IN A CORNFIELD by ROBERT BLY THREE KINDS OF PLEASURES by ROBERT BLY QUESTION IN A FIELD by LOUISE BOGAN THE LAST MOWING by ROBERT FROST FIELD AND FOREST by RANDALL JARRELL AN EXPLANATION by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON IN FIELDS OF SUMMER by GALWAY KINNELL AT FONT-GEORGES by THEODORE FAULLAIN DE BANVILLE BALLADE OF THE FOREST HAUNTERS by THEODORE FAULLAIN DE BANVILLE |
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