Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, GALLERY OF PIGEONS, by THEOPHILE JULIUS HENRY MARZIALS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

GALLERY OF PIGEONS, by                    
First Line: Dame fancy has a gallery
Last Line: "and rhyme sweet fantasy -- ""good morrow."
Alternate Author Name(s): Marzials, Theo; Marzials, Theophile Jules Henri
Subject(s): Birds; Fear; Pigeons; Soul; Women


Dame Fancy has a gallery
Half-open to the garden-breeze; --
Around it runs a balcony
Be-set with oleander-trees,
Slender, thick and blossomy.

'Tis all built up aloft -- so high,
It seems a bridge across the sky;
And down below, in lawns and leas,
And hills and dales, and plesaunces,
And corn and dingles of golden rye,
For one wide sweep the rich glebe-land
Runs dwindling up on either hand
To where the moorland meets the sky.
Around the columns, scroll'd about, --
I trow a pleasant pictury, --
Is writ whilere how it fell out
That Jove, whom pretty dreams did flout,
Along a downy cloud did lie;
And thence in a rosy and golden shower
His glory shimmer'd adown the sky,
Where crystal Sangar wanton'd by
Its mossy banks in bud and bower
Of daffodil and bellamour,
And flower of luce and lovelily;
And how from out the panting earth
A ruddy grove at one ripe birth
Of almond rods, shot forth in flower,
Thick with thrushes' melody.
So to your right the gallery thro'
Is pictured water, green and blue,
With vermeil perch and silver trout
Flashing and twinkling in and out,
Amid the rushes' quake and quiver,
That nude a nymph, the gold drops shaking
Out her hair, is just forsaking,
Light her step the long reeds breaking,
Fresh i' the flushes of the river.
Eke the while she dons her smock
She coys and coos to a flapping flock
Of waterfowl, that o'er her head
Have even perch'd on a willow-wand,
An ibis rose, an ibis red,
A nightingale, a noisy wren,
A silver swan, a hern, a hen,
That every second stretch their head,
And snatch or trill when tipt and fann'd
By fingers fair of her fondling hand.

And farther down 'tis rare to see
How all alone, and mad with love,
She ran right through the ruddy grove
Of all those almond-rods of Jove,
As every bud on every tree
Its bobs and kisses closed and made,
A-dappling her with dancing shade;
The while she wanton'd here and there,
And mouth'd the fresh, and cull'd the fair,
And flowered all her yellow hair,
And far too blithe to be afraid,
Within her buoyant bosom laid
A scraggy almond-blossom-rod,
Gay with the greatness of the god,
That in her bosom bloom'd a-new,
And buds and branches tipt and threw,
And swept and swung, below, above
Her 'shevelled head and feet unshod,
Till large with bloom, and light with love,
The margin-murmurings of the grove
Away did seem to swoon and swim;
While rosy from the river's rim
The light dew round her closed and wound,
And winding, writhing, wreathed round,
And swept the flowers o'er and o'er,
And white her kirtle toy'd and tore,
And through her limbs sharp shivers sent,
And up the hem betript and bore
And blazon'd all her beauty o'er,
And showers of flowers around did pour;
And round and around her in circles went
Wherever yet her fair foot trod,
And soyl'd the fallen flowers to the sod,
And tost and tript in merriment.

If you would all this story see
And all its merry imagery,
Commend you to my lady. She
Will lead you to her gallery;
And there awhile
Yourselves beguile
Along th'entablatures and see --
A tale more merry can not be.

My Lady (now you must be told)
Within this gallery doth hold,
Imprison'd in a cage of gold,
Some thousand pigeons -- Oh! the pretties!
(O my pigeons! O my pretties!)
Cooing all their sweet love-ditties
As their white wings flap or fold.

She comes sometimes at dawn of day, --
Against the golden wires they cling,
And all their merry matins sing,
And turn their necks, or preen a wing,
And all their beauty-tricks display,
And make them meet for journeying.

She opens the door, they fly away!

Some are white, and some dove-grey,
Some are black as smoked pearl,
Some fly straight, and others twirl
And turn and tumble along the way.

Hyueeps, Hyueeps, Hyueeps, Oho!
Out, my pretties! Ho! my pretties!
Cooing, cooing love and ditties!
Losing you were worst of pities
Ho! my pets and pretties, Ho!

All the towns are miles below;
A league alone there lies below
The church and vane, the chimes go,
And clatters and clashes and booms the bell;
And over the terrace and dingle and dell --

Ho!

And over the wenches who yawn at the well,
And flutter above their socks and smocks,
And clash their pails and pannikins -- Ho!
Over the poplars, all in a row,
A mile below the elm that rocks,
The tips of gold in the golden glow,
And all the roofs and the weather-cocks,
Squeaking and creaking the redder they grow,
As black and long and black -- Ho!
The trees their side-long shadows throw,
Ho, Hyueeps, Hyueeps, oho;
Out, my pretties! Ho, my pretties!
Mad as merry! how they go!
Zounds and Zephyr! and how they go!
Over the corn, and over the cocks,
Over the river and over the hill!
Swoop in the fruitery, apple and pear,
Hyueeps, and up to the tips of the air!
Hyueeps, and up and over the hill!
And over the swallows that veer in flocks,
Below, believe! a league below
The hill itself below the mill;
And merry and merry the sails go,
Round, and round, and wound with the wind,
And all the folks are standing still,
And all the world runs out of mind,
Aud black their shadow flies behind,
Behind, below, below, behind!
A-running, a-running along the hill,
And large along the golden land,
All rose and red in the rising glow,
Ho! my pets and pretties, Ho!
Out of earshot! How they go!
And all the reapers, scythe in hand,
Are shouting: -- "Ho! Hyueeps, O-ho!"
Whirr and winging! How they go!
Up and up, and dizzying high,
A little cloud in the rosy sky,
And red the sun leaps up, and gold,
And down they swoop, and over the wold,
All in the twinkling of an eye.

My mistress mine is light of hand,
And dainty, fair, and calm of mien;
Her head alone bespeaks a queen;
All things grow trim at her command.
She strews the cage with shining sand,
And grain and groundsel, gold and green,
And rose and white she twines a band
Of rose-buds, the gold bars between.

She sets a perch for every pretty,
With crystal water fills each well,
And hums the while soft amoretti,
With fragrant breath like asphodel; --
And such sweet wording makes her tongue,
It seems, for Cupid's worship rung,
It chimed a little silver bell;
And song drops glibly from her lips
Like from the rose's curling tips
The dew-drop or the honey drips,
In twinkling pearl and rubicel.

My mistress mine is lithe and tall,
She motions not, but glides or moves;
She helps her maids to deck the hall
With those fair flowers her fancy loves.
In grace she over-tops them all,
And buoyant is her bird-like head,
And smoother than a turtle-dove's;
And round about, a loosen'd thread
Of fresh carnations and red cloves
Is deftly wove and filleted.

Her eyes are dark with violet,
And tender, deep, and still withal.
With sprigs of pinks and mignonette
Her bosom breathes ambrosial;
Wherever eke her foot is set,
Her garment as soft music flows
In harmony of folds, and yet
It madrigals the while she goes.
And when she stands so slim and tall,
Enchanting pictures 'gainst the wall
Her very shadow throws.

My lady's heart is blithe and pure;
And eke her hand is sweet and fresh;
The dimples are as blushing rose,
And creamy peach the dainty flesh:
The very dough she fashioneth
No need of sugar finds, nor wine;
The flour that flutters on her breath
Comes strawberry down or bloom of pine;
And what she kneads to all desire
She makes so dainty fine,
Mefears t'would lose at mortal fire
Aromas so divine.

My lady's mind is saintly sweet,
Methinks it is a virginal
Whereon an angel's fingers fleet
Forever fly melodial;
And thus she thinks but heavenly things,
That 'mid the tranquil of her eyes
Most sweetly brim and harmonize,
And blend in hues of angel's wings,
With pensive loves, and sympathies;
And like an holy cordial
That music on the living strings,
And key-board of my heart, and all,
An echo so excites and rings
That mirth itself must swoon and fall,
And melt away beyond recall,
So mutely in such musickings,
So sweetly melancholial.

* * *

So swift as is my lady's wit,
And subtle, fanciful and keen,
Her pretty fingers yet prevene,
And ply before, and flaunt with it.
I watch her white hand flirt and flit,
As if a hundred, 'long the screen,
Like coveys of white turtle-doves
That at the roosting time convene,
And while the needle deftly moves
'Mid rosy threads, and silks and gold,
And purples, and a hundred-fold
Of dapper dyes, her white arms lean
Along the frame-like ivory,
And rare as rich fruit, there between,
Her stooping bosoms are just seen
To lurk and taper, tip and sigh,
Tight from the silk of shimmering green,
That lighter than the glib sea-rims, --
When the white sun is wheeling high, --
Ripples along her perfect limbs.

Straight from apart the broidery bar
O'er which my lovely lady stoops,
From out a dark grey earthen jar
Where blue moresques engraven are,
A slender lily plant, as far
As fair her shoulder, starts and droops
Just at the tip its rosy cup,
Whose every petal crinkling up
With crimson streaks and graceful scoops,
Shakes tremulous with dreamy smells,
And peals in perfumed ritournels.

She sits i'the deepest of the shades
Thrown down by the long colonnades,
And though the arches and the loops,
And tracery, the sun-light swoops
In twinkling beams a-down the grades
And marble floor like wash'd with gold;
And warm the air, in the deep cold,
Comes balmy from the garden-glades,
And citron-jars in rows, and troops
Of myrtle-shrubs, and dwarf granades,
And peaches green and white and gold,
Walled the bright length of balustrades.

Beside her singly or in groups
Stand forth and pose her model-maids,
In undulating fabrics clad,
With lilies 'mid their girded braids.
In hand one holds a blossom-spray,
And one a patine freak'd with gold,
Another archly turn'd my way
Her massy hair at-length doth hold
Above her head, like lawns of gold
O'er luscious luxury, and whence
The rose-leaf-rains in dis-array
Shredding about her this, that, way
Fleck all her draped magnificence.

One, slimly turn'd, her hand doth lay
Deftly along her unstrung lute;
And one, her head thrown back, doth fray
And tip her pouting mouth and mute
With gold her tapering double flute,
Whereon her fingers coyly stay,
Or motionless pretend to play.
And one thro' round lips red like fruit,
Her long white arm's length and relax,
Wets with the twinkling syrup-sips,
Caught in the curvings of her lips
The twisted fibre threads of flax
Drawn through her dainty finger-tips,
That up and down and flexile play
The bobbin loose about her knee,
From yellow as a honey-ray,
The spindle poised gracefully
On her white shoulder, rich to see
As cream and peaches, and parde,
So fresh and strangely fair is she
That tall she stands in full display,
A Fate, yet fairer than a Fay.

From these my lady, day by day,
Beside her broidery frame bath wove
What all the gods and girls have done
Whilere in gallantry and love.
A mighty work that, faith! shall be
Unfolded at what time with me
Shall please your high-born seigneurie,
Most gentle sir, or kind lady,
Around my lady's gallery,
And roseries to rove.

I breakfast on her cakes and wine,
And strengthen'd by her wholesome grace,
My soul nor needs to drink nor dine,
So long my fancy can divine
Such rich refreshments from her face.
So where her glances mostly fall
I have a care to take my place;
And loll along the outer wall
On the broad parapets and base,
Carved clear against the sapphire sky,
One sweep of azure, framed between
The columns of the gallery,
Against whose florid flutes I lean,
And let my light foot dangle high
Above the terrace-plots, and green,
And fountains down below; and down
A mile yet farther, moves the town,
A clockwork thing that hums and crawls
Above the puppet water-falls,
And mill and river leagues a-down,
A play-thing to the pigmy town.

And all around the pictured land
Lies mapp'd and sloped on either hand,
Up boundless to the green sea-band
That like a beryl twinkles blue,
A hundred miles at least, or two,
Where sky and hill and sea and land
All mingle out beyond the view.

I thrum my mandoline awhile,
Some glitt'ring songdrops to distil
From out my soul, that in her smile
Is balm'd and cordial'd to my will.
I plume and point a peacock quill,
Wherewith I set myself to write;
Along my hand I lay my cheek,
And dream into the moon-day light;
And round about, and slim and sleek,
And cream and pink, and white and dun,
My fair hounds fondle here and there,
And yawn and bask in warm the air,
And gambol in the golden sun.

Within my heart's an aviary,
Where wanton thoughts do pipe and play;
My pretty loves of Fantasie,
Come stretch your wings, and get you free --
I open the door -- they fly away!

All my pretty thoughts a-twitter,
Shimmer out in the golden sun,
I' the liquid ether gleam and glitter,
Swoop in swarm and wing by one.
Gold and green, and cramoisie,
Bronze and rainbow, rose and blues,
Velvet, violet, vermilly,
Ruby, peach, and pink, and pea,
Pearl, maroon, and sun, in sea,
Rains of jewels in joyful hues.

Twirling streak, and light'ning ray,
Star and flame, and fountain-spray;
Out my pets, and perts, and pretties,
Up, your lyric flights essay!
Shimmering, glimmering, out, away,
Rondel, sonnet, roundelay,
Diamond, jasper, swing and sway,
Dreamily dropt in downs of day,
Sun and sapphire, -- out -- away!
Shrilling and trilling in clear concetti,
Million-mouth'd in amoretti,
Raining rich in rose array,
Farther, farther, out away!
Rhetoric, and rose, and ditty,
Nightingales were ne'er so witty;
Oh! my pets, so pert and pretty,
Twitter, glitter, pipe and play,
Out as a rose-spun cloud of spray,
Over and out, and flash'd away.

My lady let her needle fall,
And flung her fair head back the while,
Till each the echoes of the hall
Mimick'd the music of her smile.
The glib laugh purled from light her lips
In ripe rains like pomegranate-pips
And rippling founts of oenomel,
And like a rose-bud big with flower,
Or ripe fruit at the garnering hour,
The mirth her cheeks did swell.

"O poet mine, though indiscreet
Your fancy flight to let so free,
Mefears at roosting time 'twill be
A trifle less so fervent fleet,
Against your soul its wings to beat,
And chorus in your poesy.

"O poet mine, tho' volatile,
And full of caprice as can be,
Your wanton thoughts to thus beguile
A cycle sooner than a mile,
From out yourself and me.
If I've not learnt your lore in vain,
Nor cull'd your sonnets' herbary,
Nor known your soul its balm and bane,
And fused it in my sorcery,
Your poet's pets and perts and pretties --
(And losing them were worst of pities!)
Mefears will ne'er come back again,
They are so scatter'd, mount and main,
A thousand miles and out to sea,
And some are lost in years ago,
And some in years have yet to be;
And some have soar'd beyond all time, --
Far out of reason, out of rhyme,
To east and west, above, below,
Beyond eternity.

"And some have flown to a pleach'd pleasaunce
And swing athwart the fountain-falls,
And lose the poet's read romaunce
'Mid maddening maze of madrigals.
They flap and trill, and pipe applause;
The laughing ladies wave their hands,
And flutter scarves and lace and gauze,
And chase them with their gay ribands;
And ere the sun the garden leaves,
In truth so trite it fain deceives,
They'll follow suit in gallant bands,
And night amid their lady's eaves.

"And some have sunk to the orchard-close,
And peck the pippins round and red,
And feast amid the raspberry rows,
And spoil the queen's pet strawberry-bed.
And now the gard'ner comes that way,
And flings the net, alack-a-day! --
They ne'er have time to swirl away,
And now they're all imprisoned.

"And some by night when sups the king
Beside the comely courtisan
Are spit and turning round the string
(Mefears I set you marvelling)
Each one a savoury ortolan.

"And one has swoop'd to a diamond-pane
To peep at what 'twere sin to see.
My Lady Prue comes nooning there,
And turns the casement t'wards the air;
And takes your sonnet then and there,
All lief 'twere in her bosom lain
Or liquid lawns about her knee. --
And ah! she is so fair, so fair,
You fain might spend yourself in prayer,
He'd let her wring his neck, I swear,
And teach him for temerity.

"And some the prince's fool has caught
To serve within a fancy pie;
And when the queen the pastry breaks
Nor doubts the tasty morsel nigh,
They'll all go forth in shrieks and shakes
Amid the comfits, quince, and cakes,
And dames in terror like to die.

"And some from off the falcon frames
Have shot sheer up to heaven's height
To Venus' balmy bosom, bright
With snowy lawns and farthingales;
They peck the sparrows nursed therein
That all to peep and cheep begin
And voice as shrill as nightingales; --
And Venus laughs, she can but fain,
And yokes them to a crystal bar;
At night amid her doves in star
They'll lead along her rosy car,
And bear her where the banquets are
In Tethys' beautiful domain.

"And some the courtiers catch in cages
And teach to sing their ladies' names,
And add fresh fuel to the flames
The flame of love alone assuages;
And some are ta'en as gifts and gages
To win fresh oeilliads from the dames, --
And balm'd upon their bosoms sweet,
With rose and amber for their meat,
And from their lips the plums to eat,
'Tis folly's maddest self that blames,
Or can expect them home for ages.

"And some have flown to heaven above,
'Mid streets of beryls blue and bright,
Beturreted to left and right,
And flutt'ring free with banderolles;
They turn the young saints' heads with love,
(My poet mine, you are too free!)
They chase them each, below, above, --
Half madden'd by their minstrelsy, --
Thro' garths of crimson gladioles;
And, shimmering soft like damoisels,
The angels swarm in glimmering shoals,
And pin them to their aurioles,
And mimick back their ritournels.

"And one has tipt a golden pipe
Of those the roses wreathe and stripe,
And flaps its wings, and swings and sings,
Awhile below the fingers fly
On rows of keys of ivory,
In mingled runs and quaverings.
It shakes its head and crests of blue,
Mefears it fain must sing its say:
Oh poet mine, my troth is true;
Mefears we'll sadly have to rue
The time we let yon wanton thro',
Would teach Saint Cilly how to play!

"O poet mine, O poet mine!
Mefears ye put me much to shame;
For some as rashly down decline
Into a place I dare not name
So scrannel-scraunch'd in whirls of flame.
And of the others far away,
Where'er they be I dare not say,
But lost or dead, or flown astray,
Or far too happy, lack-a-day!
My poet, to return your way!"

My lady laughed. She is so fair,
She can but know it every whit;
She knows for one kiss of her hair
There's ne'er a saint but fain would dare
Thro' yonder casement to repair,
Tho' never, never back to flit,
But waste in an eterne despair.
I' faith she yet might clip his wings,
Or cage him as a bird that sings, --
She is so fair, she is so fair,
The very saints would dare such things
For one short kiss of her long hair!

My lady laugh'd, and dropp'd her thread,
And reels and bobbin-wheels, and said: --
"Oh poet mine, nor thus forlorn, --
My pets nor need my crumbs nor corn,
They long and love me so instead!
I prythee search far out away
Beyond the sun and sunken day,
Upon a gentle Zephyr borne,
My pets return, a speck of grey,
They are so far, so far away."

My lady beck'd her courbent hand
A-thwart the gardens down below,
Where gentle dames, all quaintly clad,
Were grouping, bending to and fro;
My lady call'd them by their names
(Her voice is music, as you know),
"My ladies! leave your garths and games,
And cups and balls, and games of grace;
My Lady Prue! my Lady May!
At love, or work, or dress, or play,
My pretties flutter back, medames!
Be ready at the roosting place;
And bring me buds from bough and bed,
And beaupots of your choicest roses,
And lupins, wreath'd in gold and red,
And all your neatest, sweetest posies!
And bring me eke my robe of rose,
That fits all features of the night;
For swifter than your sonnet flows
My pets return on liquid light.
Nor swirl to left, nor sway to right.
I know ye, pretties, by your flight!
No birds, I swear, can wing so light!
Behold, behold to your despite,
A cloud of black, a reek of grey,
They hardly widen to the sight,
They are so far, so far away,"
Fleck,
A speck,
I' the cloud of gold;
Over the wold
The rosy wold,
Over the hill,
The purple hill,
A growing group!
A swirl, a swoop!
Nearer, nearer, nearing still!
Over the black wood, over the plain,
Over the lake, and the corn, and the grain,
And the long white walls where the gourds are lain;
Nearer, nearer, nearing still,
Mid twilit bloom and purple haze,
Or strips of vines, like chrysophrase
I' the setting sun, and the slanting rays
It sends out straight from off the hill;
Nearer, nearer, nearing still.
Against the wearying wheels of the mill,
Wearily winging o'er river and rill,
Over the poplar, beyond, below,
Where tearing the torrent is foaming in snow
At foot of the woods in the deep ravine,
And nearer, and over the forest of pine,
And nearer, and nearer, and over the hill,
The goose-girl running along the way,
The cackling geese, and leagues away
Returning reapers; swing and sway,
Down to the barn in a deep decline,
And cattle that low for the milking-shed,
And girls a-calling "Cuds" and "Kitties,"
Through orchards bathed in gold and red;
And over the inn and the hostelry,
The green, and the tennis and trellised vine,
And lovers endearing inditing their ditties
Over the cider-butts, over the wine.
Over the host, and the horn on the sign,
Over the porch, and the proud lady
Gone forth in the cool of the even-shine
Along the larches, along the lea;
Then swirl and swoop, and far and free,
And over the bean-slope, black and brown,
And black the shades the shocks throw down,
And ho! and up, and over the town,
(Oho! hyueeps, hyueeps, Oho!)
And over the swallows that veer in flocks,
Below, believe! a league below,
Above the elm, that sways and rocks
The boughs of gold in the golden glow,
And all the roofs and the weather-cocks,
That creek and squeak the greyer they grow
From gold and rose -- hyueeps, Oho!
As black, and long, and black, Oho!
The trees their sidelong shadows throw,
That longer lounge in the light that lingers,
As clatters and clashes and booms the bell,
Rung from the belfry, and, rocking, the ringers
Wave to the wenches, that yawn at the well
And wring up above them their smocks and socks,
And clash their pails and pannikins, Ho!
And titter and splash, and splatter and splutter,
Then flying a-thwart them, flaunt, in a flutter,
Oho! hyueeps, hyueeps, Oho!
Zounds! and Zephyr! and how they go!
Swoop and up, hyueeps! Oho!
A league, hyueeps! and up, Oho!
And over the terrace, and over the pond,
The caged walks, and the lawns beyond,
A-cooing, a-cooing, and love and ditties,
A-flapping and flying. And oh! my pretties!
Indeed your loss were worst of pities!
Ho! hyueeps! hyueeps! hyueeps!
Swoop, and up, to the tips of the air,
Down, and over the gallery stair,
Crowding and crowding here -- and there --
I' the crimson streak of the distant sea
The great sun sinks, like a red ruby!

My lady rose, and like the cloud
That swoons along some wooing wind,
She glided to the gallery's end,
Where steps on steps descend, descend,
And yet descend, and long'd and lined
The long way down, by carved a crowd
Of gods and girls, and all embough'd
With boxen shrubs, and glittering eke
With fountain tanks that jar each dye
And mirror'd changes of the sky
All shot with one long crimson reek
On bronze and blue disharmony;
And round the rims, with shrilling shriek
The twinkling peacocks all, that tend
From terrace flight to terrace flight,
Are fluttering in the rosy light,
Where balustrade and buttress bend,
And arches all the walled height
Rise from the pleasaunce, dizzying high,
Up to the gallery 'gainst the sky;
And all so fanciful and light,
A marvel more than masonry.

My lady stands at top the stair;
The pigeons swarm up thick as bees,
They flap and flutter everywhere,
Amid the fruited orange-trees.
Around her shoulders, round her head,
They cling along the crimson eaves,
And squirrels 'mid the traceries
And column-heads in carven leaves
Of great trefoil and strawberries,
And fig-boughs tangled tight in sheaves.

My lady stands at top the stair,
Against the purples of the sky;
The dim starts tremble here and there,
The laughters of all nights repair
To join the loves in either eye.
And round her like elysian mist
O'er limbs too lovely to be kissed,
Just dimly hinted, oh! so fair,
Flutters her rosy drapery.

She scatters out the golden grain
Above, below, and everywhere,
And long a-down the lowest stair,
And veer'd above the chapel-vane,
To left and right, a-down again,
Again and glittering to the plain,
And leagues a-lounging to the plain,
And fading, sweeps into the air,
Till all around is largess lain,
And yet runs down in golden rain,
All thick with pigeons struggling loud,
That coo and flap and squeeze and scold,
And turn and tumble, crowd and crowd,
Around and around her swept and roll'd;
And pitter-patter, Oh! my Sweet,
The corn-gems twinkle to her feet,
And twinkle, tinkle to her feet,
And glitter, flitter, flutter fleet,
Like Danae in her shower of gold.

My lady calls them, two by two;
(Her voice is music, as you know!)
They flutter half the gallery through,
Amid the myrtles, rose, and yew,
That sweeten through the twilit blue
Of arch and shadow light and low,
The shot-grey sky is cleaving to.

My lady holds the golden gate,
And bids her pretties all therein;
They bill her hand, their mirth abate,
And flutter, flitter, flutter in.

My lady locks the golden door,
"And now, my pets, your vespers sing;
And now again, and yet once more,
Then pair and perch for slumbering."

She lays her lips along the bars;
The twilight grows a deeper dye.
The purple night gets thick with stars,
The gall'ry deepens in the sky,
"And now, my pets, your compline sing,
And now to sleep, remembering
The freshest breath the dawn can bring
Must wake me with your carolling."

And now a night-wind steals thereby,
A harmony of every sigh
The sweet souls linger on and die,
From flowers grown faint with blossoming.

"And now, my pretty ones, good-bye."

My lady sleeps in the northern tower,
That stands up stark against the night;
On the lofty dial the sleep-crazed hour
Still creeps along, for the moon is bright.
Above the dial jut out great rings
Of carven cactus-wreaths in flower;
And furlongs yet above, to right,
Against a cornice a griffin clings,
And gnashes and grins in the green moonlight,
And cringes from slipping the great sheer height,
Down base and buttress, the wall'd rock down,
Thro' moonlit trail that lazily lies
Along the valley; and leagues a-down,
The silent river that foams and flies
By slumbering garden and woodland rise,
The spare vane-spire that points to the skies,
The market squares, where the moonlight lies,
And the empty ways of the sleeping town.

At the top of the thinnest pinnacle peak,
Above the griffin, is tightly furl'd
The banderolle, tho' the light cloud-reek
Is thinning around the standard bar,
And mid the moonlight, all uncurl'd,
Goes melting out from star to star.

The Pleiades are just o'erhead,
And shake and twinkle, green and red;
And all around them lies the world
Between the distant hills afar,
The distant silver-strip of sea,
The widening plain, afar, afar,
Where slopes and woods all blended are
In moonbeams trailing out afar,
Out luminous to eternity.
And over all, and large and white,
Calm Dian glides along the night.

My lady sleeps in the northern tower,
And sleeps as only a pure soul can.
'Tis just the death-still midnight hour
When every breath and swooning flower
Is witch'd by poppy and tulipan.
There's scarce a sound in the silent night
But a restless kine-bell from distant hills,
And the nightingales in the broad moonlight
In myriad madrigals of trills
From out the cedars and cypress trees,
That line my lady's pleasaunces,
Stretched out so many feet below
In plats and borders as you know,
And sweeps of moonlight and black trees,
And long black shadows straight from these,
And statues too and marble grades
With strips of silver striped between,
And tinsel'd tank and stirr'd piscine,
And broad black lines from the colonnades,
And trembling trees in their deep dark shades,
Like a soul that sleeps thro' serenades,
And all unconscious, dreams in bars.
And here and there are twinkling stars.

My lady sleeps in the northern tower;
The bowery terrace juts below;
Above all tracery, carven flower,
And grim gurgoil is her bower-window.
A pane is open; the moon looks in!
The moonlight lies on the floor, a sheet
Of molten silver; large and sweet,
The cream-rosebuds and jessamine
Are tottering as they peep therein
Along the loops and carven bars;
And down beneath and soft, and slow,
The fountain jet, in faltering flow,
Spurts up and tosses into stars,
And sprays up to the window bow
Sweet draughts, from off the great square jars
Of citron-trees in flower and fruit,
With glow-worms glimmering at the root,
And shimmering fire-flies, that skim
Along the brimming fountain-brim,
Meandering in a million mazes,
O'er beds of lush heartease and clove,
Around, around, beneath, above,
In rapid dart and dreamy swim,
Thro' perfume-laden garden hazes,
And over and back to the terrace-rim.

My lady sleeps in the northern tower,
(Oh, hush ye! hush ye! my pets and pretties!)
In hand she holds a lily flower,
And round her head sweet cherubs lower,
And satin garments along the floor
Tremble with pearls as the moon slips o'er;
And all on tip-toe round her pour
Their silent songs, my pretty dreams,
With rhymes and rhythms all unstrung,
That mingle with the soft moonbeams,
And deep'ning odours of dew-drops rung.
Hush ye! hush ye! my pets and pretties,
They cling to the carvings and crowd the sill,
And rondel, sonnet, and soft love-dities,
Mingle and murmur, Oh my pretties!
With faltering fountain, and flowers to fill,
And moonlight, moonlight flooding in,
And the distant nightingales that trill,
And the cream rose-buds and the jessamine,
That shake and tremble and silver spill,
As all my pretties peep therein,
And wanton at their fancies' will.

My lady sleeps in the northern tower!
How fair she is she little knows, --
Her slim limbs lissom as lily flower
When zephyrs seek their night repose;
My lady holds some mighty charm,
Her blush-cheek dimpling, cream and rose,
To lie so lightly along her arm,
And lie so lightly and lie so fair,
When every fancy would fain repair
To night amid her braids of hair,
The tangled rims of her moonshot hair,
In florid tropes and wreath'd concetti,
Mazed in moonlit amoretti.
Hush, my pets, so pert and pretty
(Indeed your loss were more than pity!)
Flutt'ring at the window there.

How fair she is she little knows,
Tho' all the saints may hallow'd keep,
Begirt with poppies, wreath'd in rose,
With pansied wings that fan to sleep
And scatter silver here and there,
And harmonise her whole repose,
In cordial opiate drops of prayer,
And sweeps of rebecks, moonlit strung;
She is so fair, she is so fair,
The very saints would fain forget,
And melt the moonbeam moats among,
Along her breath like mignonette,
And arms along the pillow flung.

She little fears who little knows,
(My pretties, prithee, yet contain!)
Or else would keep her heart more close,
Nor let so loose the golden chain.
She little fears who little knows,
My pretties all are piping in,
And passing kiss her bosom eke,
And lips just parting as to speak,
In laughter dimpling down her chin.

She little fears, who little knows,
To leave ajar the golden gate;
My pretties all their mirth abate
And flutter in her soul within;
And where her sweet thoughts caged are,
They perch and pair and match and mate,
And murmur strange tales from afar,
Of love and death and woe and win,
Till all my soul is echo'd in
And all her holies lie ajar.
She little fears who little knows.

To-morrow when the morning comes,
With sweet aubades, and shawms, and drums,
And tabret, flute, and violin,
And one by one the birds begin,
And rosy day is dancing in,
And all the pigeons perch'd below
Caged in her gallery, as you know,
Get up and peep, and preen their wing,
And, as she bade them, shrill and sing,
And make them trim for journeying.
And when she's caught their calls and ditties,
And wakens up to tend her pretties,
Sheveling out her braids of hair,
And bare-foot tripping adown the stair,
Her heart within shall wake as loud,
And all her fancies pipe in pair,
And all my pretty thoughts in crowd
Go shimmering out to the tip-top air.
And loud with hers shall blend and borrow,
And rhyme Sweet Fantasy -- "Good morrow."





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