Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A DREAM AT ARDEA (MAREMMA), by WILLIAM SHARP Poet's Biography First Line: Where ardea, the cliff-girt Last Line: The star of eve. Alternate Author Name(s): Macleod, Fiona Subject(s): Dreams; Earth; Love; Mythology - Classical; Rome, Italy; Sea; Venus (goddess); Nightmares; World; Ocean | ||||||||
Where Ardea, the cliff-girt, Looks to the Sea, Dreaming forever In her desert place Of her vanished glory -- There too in the tall grass, Starred with narcissus And the flaming poppy, I dreamed a dream. Not of the days when The fierce trumpeting Of the Asian elephants Made the wild horses Snort in new terror, Snort and wheel wildly; Till o'er the Campagna They passed like a trail Of vanishing smoke. No, nor when The brazen clarions Of the Roman legion Summoned the hill-folk To the Punic War: Nor yet when the shadow Of the falling star Of the House of Tarquin Swept unseen o'er the banquet, And none, foreseeing, Drew forth the pure sword For the foul heart of Sextus. Nor yet of the ancient days When the fierce Rutuli Laughed at the boasting of The seven-hilled city, And when on rude altars White victims lay, To appease the anger Of barbarian Gods -- Nay, not of these, not even the far-off, The ancient time, when the mother of Perseus, Danae the beautiful, came hither and builded Close to the sea the hill-town which standeth Now amid leagues of the inland grasses, White with the surf of the blossoming asphodels -- Nay, but only Of the shrine of her, Venus, the Beautiful One, The Well-Beloved. Lost, it lieth Deep 'mid the tangle, Deep 'neath the roots of the flowers and the grasses Drawn like a veil o'er The face of Maremma. Only the brown lark singing above it, Only the grey hare Beneath the wild olive; Only the linnet aflit in the myrtle, Only the spotted snake Writhing swiftly O'er the thyme and the spikenard, Only the falcon Dusking a moment the gold of the yellow broom, Only the things of the air and the desert, Know where deep in the maze of the undergrowth Lieth the shrine of the sacred Goddess, The shrine of Venus. Up through the dark blue mist of the harebells -- All the wild glory, with trailing convolvulus; Lenten lilies asway in the sunlight, Wine-dark anemones, pasque-flowers of ruby, Iris and daffodil and sweet-smelling violet, And high over all the white and gold shining Where the wind raced o'er the aspodel meadows: All the flower-glory of Spring in Maremma. But here, just here, a mist of the harebells -- Up through the dark blue mist of the harebells Rose like a white smoke hovering gently Over the windless woodlands of Ostia Where the charcoal-burners wander like shadows, Rose a white vapour, stealthily, slowly. Ah, but the wonder! the wan ghost of Venus Rose slowly before me: Dark, deep, and awful the eyes of the vision, Sad beyond words that wraith of dead beauty, Chill now and solemn Austere as the grave, The face that had blanched The high gods of old, The face that had led The heroes of men From the heights of Caucasus To the uttermost ends Of Earth, as leadeth nightly The Moon, her cohorts Of perishing billows. "I am she whom thou lovest:" "Nay, whom I worship, Goddess and Queen!" "I am she whom thou worshippest:" "For thou art Beauty, and Beauty I worship, And thou art Love, and Love --" "Love is Beauty. They love not nor worship, They who dissever the one from the other." "Hearken, O Goddess!" "Nay, shadow of shadows, why callest me Goddess! Far from thy world 'the Goddess' is banished. Ye have chosen the dark: the dark be with you! Ye have chosen sorrow: and sorrow is yours: O fools that worship vain Gods, and know not That life is the breath but of perishing dust -- They only live in whose hearts there hath fallen The breath of my passion --" "O Goddess, fade not!" "I pass, and behold, With my passing goeth The joy of the world!" Darkly austere The face of the Goddess. Then like a flame That groweth wan And flickereth forth from the reach of vision, The face of Venus Was seen no more, Though through the mist Her eyes gleamed darkly, Great fires of joy -- Of joy disherited, But glorious ever In their lordly scorn, Their high disdain. Not till the purple-hued Wings of the twilight Waved softly downward From the Alban hills, And moved stilly Over the vast dim leagues of Maremma, Turned I backward My wandering steps. Far o'er the white-glimmering Breast of the Tyrrhene Sea (Laid as in sleep at the feet of the hills) Rose, dropping liquid fires Into the wine-dark vault of the heaven, The Star of Evening, Venus, the Evening Star: Eternal, serene, In deathless beauty Revolving ever Through the stellar spheres! High o'er the shadowy heights Of the Volscian summits The full moon soared: Soared slowly upward Like a golden nenuphar In a vaster Nilus Than that which floweth Through the heart of Egypt. The moon that maketh The world so beautiful, That moveth so tenderly Over desolate things, The moon that giveth The amber light, Wherein best blossom The mystic flowers Of human love. Through the darkness Whelming the waste, And, like a stealthy tide Rising around Ardea, the cliff-girt, Wavered the sound of joyous laughter. Sweet words and sweeter Fell where the lentisc Bloomed, and the rosemary: Loving caresses Lost in a rustle Where the hawthorn-bushes Loomed large in the twilight Of the fireflies' lanterns. Deep in the heart of A myrtle-thicket A nightingale stirred: With low sweet note, Thrilling strangely, And as though moving With the breath of its passion The midmost leaves. But once her plaint: -- Then wild and glad, In a free ecstasy, In utter bliss, In one high whirl of rapture, sang His answering song Her mate, low swaying upon a bough, With throat full-strained, and quivering wings Beating with tremulous whirr. Then I was glad, For surely I knew I had dreamed a dream 'neath the spell of Maremma. Not sunk in the drift Of antique dust, Lost from the ken of Earth Within her shrine, Venus, the Beautiful, The Queen of Love! But though no longer Beheld of man, Still living and breathing Through the heart of the world -- Whether in the song, Passionate, beautiful, Of the nightingale; Or in the glad rapture Of lovers meeting, With soft caresses Hid in the dusk; In the fair flower of the vast field of heaven; Or in the glow, The pulsing splendour, Of the white star of joy, The Star of Eve. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HALL OF OCEAN LIFE by JOHN HOLLANDER JULY FOURTH BY THE OCEAN by ROBINSON JEFFERS BOATS IN A FOG by ROBINSON JEFFERS CONTINENT'S END by ROBINSON JEFFERS |
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