Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE HALT IN THE GARDEN, by ROBERT SILLIMAN HILLYER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE HALT IN THE GARDEN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Hesperides? Right here! The faithful keeper
Last Line: Yonder's a chian vintage. Fill your cup!
Subject(s): Immortality; Mythology - Classical


Hesperides? Right here! the faithful keeper,
Sir, at your service. Won't you step this way?
The shadows round the elm are growing deeper,
You can not go much farther on today.
Sit here, this rock will hold the heat a while,
And later, if you're so inclined, we'll sup
Over at my house in the hollow there.
It must be you I saw that clambered up
The rock-ledge and came through the broken stile?
The other road is shorter by a mile,
But you are young, -- I don't suppose you care.

Yes, help yourself, but don't take three or four;
Take one and eat it to the very core.
Hell! that young Pan's scoundrel! Nibbles one,
Throws it away, nibbles another, shakes
The bought, -- and nine times out of ten it breaks, --
Spilling my finest beauties by the score
To rot away and stink under the sun.
These be no common apples; -- no, not gold,
If people said so then it's lies they told, --
They're all the seasons bottled in one fruit,
Autumn atop and April at the root.
And what a savour to the nose and tongue!
No, Sir, I never touch them, I am here
To guard not eat. . . but once, O years ago,
Long before you were thought of . . . well, I know
Their taste and smell, and I should still be young
If I had gone on eating year to year.

The gods, now, 'tis their right, but even they
Come seldom. Not that I'm complaining, only
As I grow old I seem to grow more lonely.
Life isn't as it was for them or me;
There's more time to remember, less to play,
And somehow one pretends at being gay.
When they have picnics by the linden tree
Across the valley, one or two come over
And lie here at my feet among the clover,
Picking the petals off the daisies, while
I tell them fairytales to make them smile.
For, between us Sir, they are children still,
Ready to burst with laughter as with tears,
In spite of all that time has done, -- and will.

I've loved them now over three thousand years,
And served them as you see, not well or ill,
And I can tell you, Sir, my blood runs cold
To think I shall be dead when they are old.
O most of all, Hermes and Artemis
I love, -- the immortal Girl, the immortal Boy!
To see them is a sort of awful joy,
To touch them, unimaginable bliss.
Many have tried to snare them, and in vain;
For when you spread the usual sort of mesh,
Music and wine to catch them, then they are
As ghostly and remote as the white train
Of seven moons that swarm about the star
Of Zeus. White flame of spirit and of mind
Held in twin columns of triumphant flesh!
And yet, they say how each has given his heart
Unto the other, and how they take their joys
Touching with one aerial kiss, to part
She with her virgins, he among his boys. . . .
You smile that love so far outdoes my wit,
Words being finite and love infinite.

Compare with these immortals, if you will,
The latter pieties I entertain.
They mope along the summit of the hill
As though the landscape pleased them not, and strain
To find a blemish on my appletrees, --
A blemish! here in the Hesperides!
I vow, Sir, it's my duty I perform,
And neither more nor less, when that pale swarm
Come buzzing down on me and call me Brother
As though it were a virtue so to do!
We take our liberties in all the ranks,
But none takes liberties with any other, --
You understand, Sir, -- well, this pious crew,
Instead of dining in the hall outside,
Invite themselves to take their meat with me,
Seeming to think I ought to render thanks
Because they sacrifice my servant's pride
To make a show of their humility!
By Hera! then my blood all turns to gall, . . .
I serve cold porridge in the outer hall.

No tolerant stream can ever irrigate
Those arod minds. No kindly flower or shrub
Wakes on those desert hearts. Early and late
The scorpion and the unwholesome grub
Gnaw round the cactus and the prickly thorns.
Why, Sir, that aged Jew who wears the horns, --
His name escapes me, -- played so vile a trick
That even Ares wept to hear the tale.
He found young Arothyx, Campaspe's faun,
Playing all naked in the woods at dawn
Beside the tarn, the way our children do.
What then? The old man took a briary stick
And laid it on his haunches like a flail
Until the creature was all black and blue,
His infant flesh shot through and through with hurt.
It's blame and scold from dawn to dark, and still
Despising, they remain to vent despite.
We plant the rose and they unearth the dirt.
There is no peace upon the sacred hill,
No songs at noon or drinking bouts at night.
It's not 'Do as you please and so will I',
But 'Do my will; if not, be damned thereby.'
Some of my Greeks are lechers and all that,
But every one's a born aristocrat!

The curious thing is this: that gentle man
They call their Master, is a different kind.
He comes to supper with me when he can,
And eats there in my room, but I don't mind.
He doesn't pose and condescend to me,
But just as any friend to friend might be,
Sits down and eats, asks me about the weather,
Are apples ripe? and how is Aphrodite
Since her last lying-in? No high and mighty
From him; he's just a dreamy sort of friend,
Not hard to talk with or to comprehend.
The only time he ever lost his head
Was once when we were talking here together,
I told about his people. Then he said . . .
Perhaps I ought not tell you what he said,
But if words kill those holy goats are dead!

Forgive me, Sir, an old man, the late year,
We all drift on, and night is close at hand.
The planets now are ripe, harvest is near,
And they will sow new planets where we stand.
See there, the flock of yellow butterflies
That chase September down the western slope
Have flashed their last against the smoky skies.
Your hand, Sir, if you please. Blear eyes must grope
And clear still lead. . . Hark! Do you hear them shouting
Over the hill where the red sun has set?
While we sit here conjecturing and doubting
The gods of Greece are gods of laughter yet.
Over the hill, the young with blowing hair
Forget the season of the singing reapers
Who come to bind the yellow planets in.
Forget the season of the silent sleepers,
The ruined barn, the harvest in the bin.
Come in, and drink and eat, and still forgive
That lonely age should be so talkative.
I'll quench the burning itch that jerks my tongue
In draughts of wine that still remembers Greece,
And you shall hear but silence while you sup.
Once in this garden when the world was young,
At cool of evening. . . No, I'll hold my peace!
Yonder's a Chian vintage. Fill your cup!





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