Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PASSIONATE DOWSABELLA: 1, by THEOPHILE JULIUS HENRY MARZIALS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PASSIONATE DOWSABELLA: 1, by                    
First Line: Oh! The red rich honeysuckles
Last Line: Swung two butterflies in mid-air.
Alternate Author Name(s): Marzials, Theo; Marzials, Theophile Jules Henri
Subject(s): Beauty; Kisses; Love


OH! the red rich honeysuckles,
And the lanes where bindweed buckles
Long white blossoms to sweet-briar;
In the copse the blue jay chuckles,
And the cheeping linnet truckles
To the round songs of the thrush;
Where the deep woods lie and hush,
Green against the sky and lush,
Where a lark is winging higher, higher, higher.

Oh! the soft sweet June, the month of roses!
Girls, a-binding columbines in posies,
Stocks and lupins blue in ribbands string;
Under every elm a shepherd dozes;
Cold and dark the shade around him closes;
Else he pipes fond airs to rings of girls,
Wreathing, round him, purple pansies in their golden heads of curls --
As the wethers with the ewes in time go wanton gambolling.

* * *

Dowsabella, Dowsabella, whither are you going?
All alone along the meads where all the kine are lowing;
Round the porch the white rose-buds, their rich cream-heads out-blowing
Scents delicious, nod and beck, their fairest sister knowing;
Winding down the long grey grass, where sing the men a-mowing,
Winds the downy river on, with water-weeds a-flowing
Round the sedge and yellow flags, and here a rush up-growing;
Willows, too, where warblers swing, and fair flies sleep a-going --
Gauzy wings, and gold and blue, -- and all so glimmery soft is showing --
Dowsabel, sweet Dowsabel, --
Prythee, whither are you going?

Satin green the girl was dress'd in,
Shimmering white as the silver soughs
All her thick light hair was tress'd in,
Big with blossom'd lilac boughs;
Tangling and weighing her rich dun tresses
Down on the pearl-white rose of her brows.

Eke her kirtle loose a-slide,
Down her rounded lisson side,
Glided from her girdle tied
T'where her happy step and light
Hardly trod, but as alight
Giddy rose-leaves, red and white,
Dancing to the songs indite
Of some unseen zephyr sprite
That has lured them from their brambles,
And their kisses satisfied.

Thus she tripp'd along the sweet
Flowers a-bobbing at her feet,
As to fondle with mouths sweet --
Sweet the white-rose of her feet --
And to nestle in their dimples
Ere they curtsied her aside.

Dowsabel, sweet Dowsabel,
(She who loved, and loved so well),
Where the white-green fennel-bed
Cast about its films and feathers,
Sighing, laughing, wandered.

Green-white mist by love-winds led,
Waving and winding, the light boughs sped
Up to her waist, and up to her head, --
Round her in kisses white-rose-red;
Deep in her neck with sweet sharp stinging;
Tickling, up the rose-blood bringing;
Round her cream-white arms a-clinging;
Round her, and round her, tight'ning and stringing;
Green-white, pearl-white, cream-white, rose-white,
Glimmering,
Shimmering;
White to her flesh the white light springing,
Up the fennel a-flying and flinging,
Tangled and tossing in light sharp tethers;
While from far so clear came ringing
All the bells of those merry wethers!

Dowsabel, blithe Dowsabel,
Lissom as a lily-bell,
Fresh as sprout of asphodel,
Wander'd through the orchard-closes,
Like a swimming swan that dozes
Down a river red with roses,
White dog-roses,
Cream dog-roses,
Swung and swaying with the swell.

And away from down the distance,
Down the downy dreamy distance,
You could hear the clowns a-calling
As they piled the scented cocks;
And the voices and the flapping
From the bleaching-ground, and tapping
Of the wenches that were walling
Up the full fruit-boughs from falling, --
Till the air was soft with singing,
Maidens' names, and winds and winging,
Birds, and buds, and kine-bells ringing,
And the bleatings of the flocks.

And thus Dowsabella stood
In the cool calm orchard-wood;
And around her, trod and strew'd,
Cherry-knots anon were falling
That the wanton winds undid;
And, above, as if 'twere bid,
Hark! a mavis kept on calling,
Through the echoing orchard-land,
Coy the love that from him hid; --
And thus Dowsabella, dreaming,
Through the fennel-boughs a-gleaming,
Like a statue took her stand --
And her hair, and the lilac band
Down around her long neck slid.

Dowsabel, dear Dowsabel,
What's that dreaming in her eyes,
Drowsy, deep, such purple eyes,
Darkling into ecstasies?
What's that look of maddening hunger,
As if sharp some quick sting stung her?
Thrilling into cruel throbs, and wrung, and wrung with cries
Into agonies delicious, like an aching dream that dies.

What's that laughter on her lip?
Till the rose its kisses sip,
Slides along her rounded chin;
And the twinkling dimples slip
Round her smooth mouth half unclose,
Where one sees the small white rows
Of her pearl-teeth part within.

Dowsabella, Dowsabella,
What's the reason of that shudder,
When the sun so warm doth shine,
And the briar-boughs that twine,
Bound with bloom, can grow no rudder?
What's that beauty in her face?
Wild, strange beauty! as, in passion,
Nods her head in giddying grace
O'er her bosom, flower fashion;
Oh! her large and coiling grace,
And the light that lights her face!

Such a light that draws you nearer,
Draws you till you almost fear her; --
As a bee, that sips some nettle,
Sucks, a-drowning in the petal,
Death, that living were no dearer.

Oh! 'tis beauty beyond telling
Up thro' all her body welling; --
Dowsabella, Dowsabella,
Like a bud with blossom swelling.
And her sweet breath, rose and clove,
Ran along her tongue -- "I love,"
Like the glowing of rich wine;
And her laughing limbs did twine
Like to blossoms of the pine,
Or as willow-wands incline,
When the chaffinches make love;
And her fine breast, full of love.
Panted as with every sigh,
'T seem'd her very soul ran by,
Straining to a dulcet cry,
As was never set to singing,
Save along a love heart's stringing,
Struck in silver threads, all ringing,
Music beyond minstrelsy!

Thus did Dowsabella sigh;
And her arms along her breast
Writhed and tighten'd in, and press'd,
Till the wrenching of her hand
Crackled off the light green band, --
Leapt a tapering bosom out,
As a blossom curls about
Till the green bud bursts, and out
Runs the red-white poppy sprout.
Dowsabel! Oh, Dowsabel!
Methinks she loved him wond'rous well,
For down her bosom, hot and cold
With love and fever, fair to behold,
Fell forth his flower of the marigold --
In stripes of yellow, and brown, and gold.

What was Dowsabella doing
There in the hot sun of noon?
Young green pears from the boughs came strewing
All around, a summer too soon;
Love is sad, and love is gay,
Love is merry mad alway --
Dowsabella loved in June!

Dowsabella was waiting a lover;
Who can doubt he kept the tryst?
Who can doubt her mouth was kiss'd,
Till its beauty rippled o'er?
That her bosom-beats grew stronger,
Till their strength could hold no longer;
Beaten out into a lover;
Up the fennel feathering over,
Toss'd about, and still above her
Sang the thrushes, love to lover;
Round her swung the drowsy clover,
Scent and slumber everywhere.
Dowsabella was so fair,
Trust me, for a lover there!

Dowsabella, Dowsabella,
Well she coyed and courted there;
Where the fennel-boughs could cover,
Green and white; and primrose over
Swung two butterflies in mid-air.





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