Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE ROSE FARMER, by HERMAN MELVILLE Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Coming through the rye Last Line: The flower of a subject is enough. Subject(s): Flowers; Roses | ||||||||
Coming through the rye: Thereof the rural poet whistles; But who the flute will try At scrambling through the thistles! Nor less upon some roseate way Emerge the prickly passage may. But we who after ragged scrambles Through fate's blessed thorns and brambles Come unto our roses late -- Aright to manage the estate, This indeed it well may task us Quite inexperienced as we be In aught but thickets that unmasque us Of man's ennobling drapery. Indigence is a plain estate: Riches imply the complicate. What peevish pestering wants surprise, What bothering ambitions rise! Then, too, Fate loans a lot luxurious At such hard cent-per-cent usurious! Mammon, never meek as Moses, Gouty, mattressed on moss-roses, A crumpled rose-leaf makes him furious. Allow, as one's purveyor here Of sweet content of Christian cheer, "Vile Pelf" we overestimate. Howbeit, a rose-farm nigh Damascus Would Dives change at even rate For Lazarus' snow-farm in Alaskus? But that recalls me: I return. -- A friend, whose shadow has decreased, For whom they reared a turbaned urn, A corpulent grandee of the East, Whose kind good will to me began When I against his Rhamadan Prepared a chowder for his feast, Well dying, he remembered me: A brave bequest, a farm in fee Forever consecrate to roses, And laved by streams that sacred are, Pharpar and twin-born Abana, Which last the pleasure-ground incloses, At least winds half-way roundabout -- That garden to caress, no doubt. But, ah, the stewardship it poses! Every hour the bloom, the bliss Upbraid me that I am remiss. For still I dally, -- I delay, -- Long do hesitate, and say, "Of fifty thousand Damask Roses, -- (For my rose-farm no great matter), Shall I make me heaps of posies, Or some crystal drops of Attar? To smell or sell or for a boon. Quick you cull a rose and easy; But Attar is not got so soon, Demanding more than gesture breezy. Yet this same Attar, I suppose, Long time will last, outlive indeed The rightful sceptre of the rose And coronations of the weed. Sauntering, plunged in this debate, And somewhat leaning to elect The thing most easy to effect, I chanced upon a Persian late, A sort of gentleman-rose-farmer On knees beside his garden-gate Telling his beads, just like a palmer. Beads? coins, I meant. Each golden one Upon a wire of silver run; And every time a coin he told His brow he raised and eyes he rolled Devout in grateful orison. Surely, methought, this pious man, A florist, too, will solve my doubt. Saluting him, I straight began: "Decide, I pray, a dubious matter --" And put the Roses and the Attar. Whereat the roses near and far -- For all his garden was a lawn Of roses thick as daisies are In meads from smoky towns withdrawn -- They turned their heads like ladies, when They hear themselves discussed by men. But he, he swerved a wrinkled face, Elderly, yet with ruddy trace -- Tinged doubly by warm flushings thrown From sunset's roses and his own; And, after scanning me and sounding, "And you? -- an older man than I? Late come you with your sage propounding: Allah! your time has long gone by." -- "Alack, Sir, but so ruled the fate I came unto my roses late. What then? these gray hairs but disguise, Since down in heart youth never dies -- O, sharpened by the long delay, I'm eager for my roses quite; But first would settle this prime matter -- Touching the Roses and the Attar: I fear to err there; set me right." Meseemed his purs'd eyes grateful twinkled Hearing of veteran youth unwrinkled, Himself being old. But now the answer Direct came, like a charging lancer: "Attar? Go ask the Parsee yonder. Lean as a rake with his distilling, Cancel his debts, scarce worth a shilling! How he exists I frequent wonder. No neighbor loves him: sweet endeavor Will get a nosegay from him never; No, nor even your ducats will; A very save-all for his still! Of me, however, all speak well: You see, my little coins I tell; I give away, but more I sell, In mossy pots, or bound in posies, Always a market for my roses. But attar, why, it comes so dear Tis far from popular, that's clear. I flourish, I; you heavens they bless me, My darlings cluster to caress me." At that fond sentence overheard, Methought his rose-seraglio stirred. But further he: "You Parsee lours Headsman and Blue Beard of the flowers. In virgin flush of efflorescence When buds their bosoms just disclose, To get a mummified quintessence He scimeters the living rose! I grant, against my different way, Something, and specious, one might say. Ay, pluck a rose in dew Auroral, For buttonette to please the sight, -- The dawn's bloom and the bloom but floral, Why, what a race with them in flight! Quick, too, the redolence it stales. And yet you have the brief delight, And yet the next morn's bud avails; And on in sequence." Came that close, And, lo, in each flushed garden-bed, What agitation! every rose Bridling aloft the passionate head! But what it was that angered here, -- Just why the high resentment shown, Pray ask of her who'll hint it clear -- A Mormon's first-wife making moan. But he, rose-farmer, long time versed In roses husbanded by him, Letting a glance upon them skim, Followed his thread and more rehearsed; And, waxing now a trifle warm: "This evansecence is the charm! And most it wins the spirits that be Celestial, Sir. It comes to me It was this fleeting charm in show That lured the sons of God below, Tired out with perpetuity Of heaven's own seventh heaven aglow; Not Eve's fair daughters, Sir; nay, nay, Less fugitive in charm are they: It was the rose." As this he said So flattering in imputation, -- Angelic sweethearts overhead, Even seraphs paying them adoration, -- Each rose, as favoring the whim Grave nodded, -- as attesting him. "But now, Sir, for your urgent matter. Every way -- for wise employment, Repute and profit, health, enjoyment, I am for roses -- sink the Attar!" And hereupon the downright man To tell his rosary re-began. And never a rose in all the garden Blushed deeper there to hear their warden So forcefully express his mind. Methought they even seemed to laugh -- True ladies who, in temper kind, Will pardon aught, though unrefined, Sincerely vouched in their behalf. Discreet, in second thought's immersion I wended from this prosperous Persian Who, verily, seemed in life rewarded For sapient prudence not amiss, Nor transcendental essence hoarded In hope of quintessential bliss: No, never with painstaking throes Essays to crystallize the rose. But here arrest the loom -- the line. Though damask be your precious stuff, Spin it not out too superfine: The flower of a subject is enough. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WHISPER OF THE ROSE by EDMUND JOHN ARMSTRONG THE WISDOM OF THE ROSE by ELSA BARKER LOVE PLANTED A ROSE by KATHARINE LEE BATES ROSES; A VILANELLE by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE PAINTER ON SILK by AMY LOWELL VARIATIONS: 17 by CONRAD AIKEN WORDS IN A CERTAIN APPROPRIATE MODE by HAYDEN CARRUTH FORMERLY A SLAVE' (AN IDEALIZED PORTRAIT, BY E. VEDDER) by HERMAN MELVILLE THE COMING STORM' (A PICTURE BY R. S. GIFFORD) by HERMAN MELVILLE A DIRGE FOR MCPHERSON; KILLED IN FRONT OF ATLANTA by HERMAN MELVILLE |
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