Classic and Contemporary Poetry
IN AUTUMN TONES, by MARGARET PERKINS BRIGGS First Line: They have not seen beyond their garden wall Last Line: Strange winds begrudge the gleaner's ancient share. Subject(s): Dreams; Evening; Gardens & Gardening; Ghosts; Harvest; Supernatural; Nightmares; Sunset; Twilight | ||||||||
I. DREAMERS They have not seen beyond their garden wall, These asters and petunias, but still, Weavers of dream, they do not think at all Of fires the sumach kindles, nor how hill On hill grows strange with a foreboding blue. Even such ancient syllables of grief As, lightly scrawled, blur Summer's script anew, Fade here, unread, leaf after tattered leaf. If radiance like this goes out in gray Forgetfulness; and if for things so frail And beautiful there be no secret way Of swift escape from some harsh-fingered gale, -- Let them dream on, untroubled . . . these who go Where scented flame is ash beneath the snow. II GARDEN GHOSTS This garden wears unmoldered memories For those the dusk returns by two and two: A straying wistfulness among the trees, Some haunting sense of secret rendevous. Only a shimmer, less than any light, Of hair, once bright against the gloom, or thrill, Futile and faint, of passion on the night Marks where they loiter . . . plighted lovers still. They need not know -- who are forever done With stricken beauty in the hearts of men, And singing summers flown, one after one, -- These shabby elms are tenantless again. The lily pond is dust, the garden wall Crumbling . . . but this they need not know at all. III DAY'S END This slow far-gathering of gloom to hood The hills still flushed with sunset, and to trail Along the gleam of waters, unwithstood, A sorcery of purple like a veil, -- This is no twilight, but a mood grown gray And inarticulate . . . brooding over all The summers gone their unremorseful way Leaving brown fields, and stricken leaves to fall. Wearing her silver mist of memory, The moon will walk along these autumn-blurred Old ways, and, one thrilled moment, there will be The floating fragrance of a face . . . or word; And pastures, hushed and wistful, where they wait, Will dream again of flocks they lost of late. IV SHE WILL BE PROUD There need be nothing said, unless it be Hers are the unforgotten, fragrant ways Of queenly loveliness, for this is she Whom many men adored in other days. And nothing need be said at all of glints Like gold along her thinning, faded hair; Of faintly hectic lips, and wine-red tints In fluttering scarfs that she has come to wear. For, in old ways that women know, she will Be proud . . . who wore the summer like a rhyme Of roses on her brow . . . and wistful still For poppies in her purple aster time. So, let there be no piteous word or sigh Where, veiled in violet, she passes by. V LATE HARVEST Now I, who have no field, nor any bin, Knowing how grave my need, go out to glean The weightless harvest I would gather in Against the time when days are drab and lean. Some still ungarnered glow, like memories Paling along the stubble, dreams of Spring Folded away in meadow-mint, -- for these Day after day my heart goes harvesting. Beyond this shimmer that pale-memoried November wears, there will be dearth . . . I fear For those, like me, with hungry hearts to feed Now that the gray, far-gathered wisps draw near, -- For those still seeking whisps of beauty where Strange winds begrudge the gleaner's ancient share. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOURNEY INTO THE EYE by DAVID LEHMAN FEBRUARY EVENING IN NEW YORK by DENISE LEVERTOV THE HOUSE OF DUST: 1 by CONRAD AIKEN TWILIGHT COMES by HAYDEN CARRUTH IN THE EVENINGS by LUCILLE CLIFTON NINETEEN FORTY by NORMAN DUBIE HARVESTERS by MARGARET PERKINS BRIGGS |
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