Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SONG OF WILLI, by MATHILDE BLIND


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SONG OF WILLI, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The wild wind is whistling o'er moorland and heather
Last Line: Then down, love to death, but with thee.
Alternate Author Name(s): Lake, Claude
Subject(s): Dancing & Dancers; Hungary


(According to a widespread Hungarian superstition -- showing the ingrained
national passion for dancing -- the Willi or Willis were the spirits of young
affianced girls who, dying before marriage, could not rest in their graves.
It was popularly believed that these phantoms would nightly haunt lonely
heaths in the neighbourhood of their native villages till the disconsolate
lovers came as if drawn by a magnetic charm. On their appearance the Willi
would dance with them without intermission till they dropped dead from
exhaustion.)



I.

THE wild wind is whistling o'er moorland and heather,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
I rise from my bed, and my bed has no feather,
Heigh-ho!
My bed is deep down in the brown sullen mould,
My head is laid low on the clod;
So wormy the sheets, and the pillow so cold,
Of clammy and moist clinging sod.


II.

The long livid moon rides alone high in heaven,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
The stars' cutting glitter their dull shrouds hath riven,
Heigh-ho!
I rise and I glide out far into the night,
A shadow so swift and so still;
Bleak, bleak is the moonshine all ghastly and white,
The dank morass drinketh its fill.



III.

And down in yon valley in wan vapour shrinking,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
The bare moated town cowers fitfully blinking,
Heigh-ho!
There, warm under shelter, the fire burning bright,
My lover sleeps sound in his bed;
But I flit alone in the pitiless night,
Unpitied, unloved, and unwed.



IV.

And hast thou forgotten the deep troth we plighted?
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
Too warm was thy love by cold death to be blighted,
Heigh-ho!
My sweetheart! and mind'st thou that this is the night,
The night that we should have been wed?
And while I flit restless, a low wailing sprite,
Ah, say, canst thou sleep in thy bed?



V.

A week, but a week, and a wreath of gay flowers,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
I wore as I vied with the fleet-footed hours,
Heigh-ho!
As I vied with the hours in dancing them down
Till the stars reeled low in the sky,
And sweet came thy whispers as rose-leaves when blown
About in the breeze of July.



VI.

"Thou'rt light, O my chosen; a bird is not lighter,
O love, my love!
I'd dance into death with thee; death would be brighter,
My love!"
And they struck up a wild and a wonderful measure;
Quick, quick beat our hearts to the tune;
Quick, quick the feet flew in a frenzy of pleasure,
To the sound of the fife and bassoon.


VII.

Oh, on whirled the pairs on the swift music driven,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
Like gossamer vapours afloat in high heaven,
Heigh-ho!
Like gossamer vapours, in silence they fled,
With a shifting of face into face;
But fleeter than all the fleet dancers we sped
In the rush of the rapturous race.



VIII.

How often turned Wanda, the slim, lily-throated,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
And gazed at wistful as onward we floated,
Heigh-ho!
And Bilba, the swarthy, whose eyes had the trick
Of a stag's, with a glitter of steel;
She lifted her lashes, so long and so thick,
To stare at my true love and leal.


IX.

But he, he saw none o' them, brown-faced or rosy,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
Tho' maidens bloomed bright like a fresh-gathered posy,
Heigh-ho!
For his eyes that shone black as the sloes of the hedges,
They shone like two stars over me;
And his breath, thrilling o'er me as wind over sedges,
Stirred my hair till I tingled with glee.



X.

Now slow as two down-bosomed swans, we were sliding,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
O'er the low heaving swell of the silver sounds gliding,
Heigh-ho!
Now hollowly booming drums rumbled apace,
Flashed sharp clatt'ring cymbals around,
And swung like loose leaves in a stormy embrace



XI.

But pallid our cheeks grew, late flushing with pleasure,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
As slowly away swooned the languishing measure,
Heigh-ho!
For shrill crew the cock as the sun 'gan to rise,
And it rang from afar like a knell;
Our kisses grew bitter and sweet grew our sighs,
As sadly we murmured, "Farewell!"



XII.

High up in the chambers the maidens together,
O love, my love!
Were piling bleached linen as white as swan's feather
My love!
Were weaving and spinning and singing aloud,
While broidering my bride-veil of lace;
But the three fatal sisters they wove me my shroud,
And death kissed me cold on the face.



XIII.

The wild wind is whistling o'er moorland and heather,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
I rise from my bed, and my bed has no feather,
Heigh-ho!
The snow driveth grisly and ghostly, and gleams
In the glare of the moon's chilly glance;
What pale flitting phantoms aroused by her beams,
Are circling in shadowy dance!


XIV.

Mayhap ye were maidens death plucked in your flower,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
As clustering you glowed in love's murmuring bower,
Heigh-ho!
Who, delirious for life from the gloom of your graves,
Are driven to wander with me,
And you rise from your tombs like the white-crested waves
From the depths of the dolorous sea.



XV.

Ah, maidens, pale maidens, o'er moorland and heather,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
The bridegroom is coming athwart the wild weather,
Heigh-ho!
Full shines the fair moon on his beautiful face,
He walketh like one in a trance;
Nay, is running like one who is running a race
Against death, with his dead bride to dance.



XVI.

At the sound of thy footfall my numb heart is shaken,
O love, my love!
Once again all its pulses to new life awaken,
My love!
It leaps like a stag that is borne as on wings
To the brooks thawing thick through the noon,
Like a lark from the glebe, like a lily that springs
From its bier to the bosom of June.



XVII.

"I hold thee, I hold thee, I drink thy caresses,
O love, my love!"
Round thy face, round thy throat, I roll my dank tresses,
My love!
"I hold thee, I hold thee! Eight nights, wan and weeping,"
I wandered loud sobbing thy name!
"Thy lips are as cold as the snowdrift a-sweeping;"
But thy breath soon shall fan them to flame!



XVIII.

Blow up for the dance now o'er moorland and heather!
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!
Blow, blow you wild winds, while we two dance together,
Heigh-ho!
Till the clouds dance above with tempestuous embraces
Of maidenly moonbeams in flight;
In the silvery rear of whose fugitive traces
Reel the stars through the revelling night!


XIX.

"Cocks crow, and the breath on thy sweep lip is failing,
O love, my love!"
Stars swoon, and the flame in thy dark eye is quailing,
My love!
"Oh, brighter the night than the fires of the day"
When thine eyes shine as stars over me!
"Oh, sweeter thy grave than the soft breath of May!"
Then down, Love to death, but with thee.





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