Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE BIRTHDAY, by RHYS CARPENTER Poet's Biography First Line: The trees were dripping, dank and still Last Line: And thoughts to linger in. Subject(s): Birthdays; Children; Cities; Fire; Rites & Ceremonies; Childhood; Urban Life | ||||||||
THE trees were dripping, dank and still, And shadows moved across the sky. We rode from out the courtyard grey, And turned our bridles toward the way That leads above the southern hill To plains wherein the cities lie. The wind of early morning stirred Through leaf and branch, and half unheard Came drowsy note of waking bird To greet us, riding by. It was my birthday: twelve short years Had shed their blossoms over me In fragrant dreams and happiness, Far from the city's dull distress, Whose clouded course of jest and tears Long since mine eyes have learned to see; But glad of heart was I that day When up we rode, by climbing way, By meadow dank and poplar grey, Ah, sweet festivity! Upon our left, the heavy shrouds And glowing curtains of the dawn Were shot with purple and with red Like garments for a king new dead, Where deep within the eastern clouds The arrows of the light had gone: And as we rode, the great sun's shield Half shone within the misty field, And phantom drifts of fog revealed Fled past like hunted fawn. There, steep upon the headland's crest, Through quarried cleft and stony break The highway wound, till from the flank Of ridgèd hills the valleys sank Deep down to quiet farms at rest On sleeping marge of wood and lake. And there, beyond the fields of grain, Within the vast and shadowed plain, Like giant in half-slumber lain, The city, scarce awake! The cocks were crowing; bird and beast Had roused from slumber. As we passed, The peasant-folk in garment gay From hut and hovel on the way In ceaseless confluence increased; And now the multitude amassed To hide the shortening road from view Till scarce our horses laboured through; Yet rod by rod we nigher drew, And won the gates at last. And now the narrow city-street Beneath the roofs and towered walls With endless vision bound my gaze. My senses spun in strange amaze; The trampling of a thousand feet Amid the wooden booths and stalls Fell like a storm about my ears And filled my brain with shapeless fears, As when a nightmare shadow nears Through terror-stricken halls. Above the swaying market square From open window we surveyed, Like watchers over beaten shores, The surge of people nigh the doors Of that dark council-chamber where The final sentence had been laid. My lips were caught as in a spell; Within my ears a funeral-bell Tolled on, with slow and heavy knell, Deep shuddering and afraid. 'Twas stroke of noon: the heavy gate Swung outward from the palace-yard; Black-gowned, and hooded deep with gloom, They came from inner council-room In sullen pomp and priestly state. Like shattered crystal's fallen shard There gleamed a figure garbed in white; And slow they came, and strange the sight, Like wrack of cloud on stormy night O'er heaven single-starred. I saw the pale and weary face Like wan and troubled winter-moon: I saw her body sway and shake Like reed within a windy lake. Rough fingers girded her in place. I saw her droop as though to swoon Above the faggots piled on high: I shivered at her dreadful cry. 'Twas still: the bells against the sky Had ceased to toll for noon. And three there came with lighted brands And tossed them on the faggots' rim; I saw the hungry tongues and lips Leap upward in a fierce eclipse Across her helpless maiden hands. I felt the tear-drops rise and brim Mine eyes, till roof and market square, Her ashen face, her golden hair, And all the evil shifting glare Grew shadowy and dim. And up and up the twisted flame Ran red and yellow, till her form Was hid with fire, and whirling smoke Above her head and shoulders broke; A wind of passion without name Encompassed her in raging storm Of pillared flame that lightened higher Than sloping roof and gilded spire; My hands could feel the leaping fire, The very stones were warm. O God, that eyes of mine should see Black counsel and dark hatred win A golden life for murderous fire To glut its limitless desire! And this was that festivity Wherewith my birthday should begin: An ashen circle, charred and grey, Whereon the winds might hold their play, A ghastly place for feet to stray And thoughts to linger in. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THINGS (FOR AN INDIAN) TO DO IN NEW YORK (CITY) by SHERMAN ALEXIE THE CITY REVISITED by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET TEN OXHERDING PICTURES: ENTERING THE CITY WITH BLISS-BESTOWING HANDS by LUCILLE CLIFTON THE CITY OF THE OLESHA FRUIT by NORMAN DUBIE DISCOVERING THE PHOTOGRAPH OF LLOYD, EARL, AND PRISCILLA by LYNN EMANUEL MY DIAMOND STUD by ALICE FULTON |
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