Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, NOON, by CHARLES MARIE RENE LECONTE DE LISLE



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

NOON, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Noon whose kingdom summer is, spread wide along the plain's expanse
Last Line: Seven times thy heart made stronger in the furnace of thy loss.
Subject(s): Noon; Weariness; Fatigue


NOON whose kingdom summer is, spread wide along the plain's expanse,
Falls down to earth in swathes of silver from his throne in heaven's blue.
All is silent. Air's aflame and burns as in a breathless trance;
Earth lies drowsed beyond awaking in her robe of fiery hue.

Far, in farness beyond span, stretch meadows where no shadow shows,
The stream where once the cattle watered now hath no more draught to bring.
Far away the forest slumbers deep amid the darkling boughs
Yonder on the still horizon where they stand unquivering.

All alone the tall wheat-ears wave to and fro their ripened grain,
As though a tide of golden waters, heedless of the drowsy call.
Sacred Earth's most careless brood with fearless lips that seek and drain
To the lees the brimming chalice that the sun holds out to all.

Now and then, as though a sigh from out their burning souls impels,
The bosom of the heavy wheat-ears lifts a murmurous sound, a-sway
With a slow majestic motion of the golden tide that swells
Till it touch the dim horizon where in haze it dies away.

Nearer, mid the grasses prone lie oxen white whose dew-laps are
Slow-dribbling downward, while inert with dullard gaze from languid eyes
Shining brightly, they pursue across the level fields a far
Inner thought whereof the still unseizéd phantom ever flies.

Get thee hence! O fellow man, avoid at noon these shining fields!
Or grief or gladness in thy bosom, fly! for nought is here for thee.
Nature is an empty thing and nought to any man she yields:
Only here the sun consumes; nought lives or sad or joyously.

But if sick of sorry laughter and the bitter sound of woe,
Or eager to forget the world and from its fret a way to win,
Wrath or pity left behind thee, thou the uttermost wouldst know
Of supremest exhaltation, Come! and steep thy soul herein.

Here the sun shall speak unto thee words of a sublimer sense;
In ardour of its quenchless flame yield up thy selfish being's dross,
With slow feet returning then to sinful cities far from hence,
Seven times thy heart made stronger in the furnace of thy loss.





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