Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DYING POET, by JOHN COWPER POWYS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DYING POET, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Between the motionless and silent grass
Last Line: Falls, and I shall not see another morn.
Subject(s): Death; Dreams; Earth; Kisses; Life; Loss; Poetry & Poets; Dead, The; Nightmares; World


Between the motionless and silent grass
And the thick foliage of these chestnut boughs,
Where every leaf trembles with weight of song,
Wrapt in sad dreams, I lie -- What doth the wind,
This forest-scented wind, that blows so soft,
Sing to the trembling leaves? Doth it recall
The summer pleasure-groves of other lands
Where redder roses blossom to the brink
Of clearer fountains myrtle-wreathed, the baths
Of laughing maidens with whose locks it played?
Or comes it from some palace garden where
Trimm'd yews and leafy vistas hide from sight
Low-voiced and stately queens that slowly pass,
Plucking choice fruits from lawn-enshading trees,
While on the cypress-bordered terraces
Plumed warriors snatch from wistful girlish lips
Long-lingered kisses, and from tearful eyes
Love-glances that will haunt them till they die?
The same south wind will blow when I am dead
But other men will heed its ministries,
And other leaves will fall upon my grave.
There is a silence and a quietness
That passeth sleep; one finds it in deep woods
When the dove's voice is almost hushed for joy,
When every leaf on shrub and tree and flower
Hangs motionless, and even those that lie
Withered upon the ground do take to them
A stillness more inviolate than death.
Then from each hidden blossom timorously
Creeps forth a gentle spirit, poised on wings
Lighter than gossamer, and from the moss,
That clings about the roots of aged trees,
Troops of mysterious beings issue forth,
The ghosts of perished flowers, and, lo! all these
Meet in the air and clasping spirit-hands
Dance noiselessly adown green-vistaed aisles,
Or swim with outstretched wings upon the waves
Of quivering light and shadow. Not on me
Descends such elfin-peopled quietness;
No fairies brush with dewy wings the cold
And indistinguishable caves where sits
Oblivion pouring from his poppied urn
Immortal Lethe upon mortal dust.
See, it is past, my life.
There is no more to do, no more to say --
Yet I had hoped to have writ something that
Should live when I was dead -- something that should
Become a fellow-minister with winds,
Vapours and floods, valleys and rooted hills
And all the potent agents of the morn
And solemn night, in the great temple courts
Of everlasting beauty. I had hoped
That tho' not trumpet-heralded, not wreathed
With shining laurel, some faint snatch of this
My laboured song might creep into a few
Attentive ears and win a little love
When I was dead -- ah! happy, could I think
That such a morn as this in after years
Two lovers sitting side by side should read,
The maiden hearing not the words for love,
Pages of mine until upon her knees
The book is closed, and those two "read no more
That day." Ah! happy me, were not such thought
Too sweet a dream.
Alas! why did the Muse of Poesy
Touch me with fleeting fingers and pass by?
Untouched I could have thoughtless lived and died,
Have drifted down the stream and at the last
Have sunk without a sigh, but now much doubt
Vexes me, and I cannot pass in peace.
I have not taken gifts that time the austere
Offers but once; me hath the sacred earth
Rejected, minstrel that did cast away
Her proffered flute and uninspired of her
Did think to sing of fields and woods and streams.
Yet have I loved; O halcyon days that now
Gleam so far off, come back to memory!
O angel face that thro' the growing dusk
Dost smile upon me still, thou, thou wilt not
Desert me, thou wilt stand beside my grave
Not scatt'ring gaudy flowers but planting one
Frail scentless violet such as the wild woods
Nourished for us alone who did not ask
Fragrance, but only loved. Now while the fields
Darken to twilight and the woods grow dim
There rises in me irresistible
The old sweet joy, again I lose myself
In evening's large tranquillity, and float
Bodiless with the creeping dusk about
The silent meadow-reaches. O wise Earth,
Mother of all, that lovest not the less
The less we men are worthy, grant me now
Unmeriting, now ere Death close his hand,
A measure of thy strength, thy power, thy calm.
O sacred Night that now dost tread the hills
Hold to my lips the magic draught wherewith
Thou dost obliterate the toils of day
And scatterest peace upon a hundred lands,
That I may drink and know the conscious joy
Of rest before I pass into the tomb.
They hear, they answer me! a wave of joy
Lifts me above myself, above my fears.
I die that was no poet, others die
Who could have overtopp'd the greatest; all
Are one at last. The earth that gave resumes
Her gift. The mother welcomes back the child.
So evermore this peopled universe
Rolls on its course; death follows life, life death;
But throughout earth, and sky, and sea, thro' space
With all its stars, thro' the unfathomed void
And measureless abysses, still is kept
The secret, Nature yet remains unread.
I would not draw aside the veil that shrouds
The grave I go to. Men may talk of worlds
Invisible, isles of the blest, for me
Be it enough to know that this our life,
This human life which I have lived, perchance
Wasted, -- it matters not, -- the universe
Is justified of failure -- now must go
And never can return.
Be near me, Love; the stars come out, the night
Falls, and I shall not see another morn.





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