Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, EIGHT SONGS TO MY SISTER GEORGIA: 8. THE SERENADE AT MORNING, by EDITH SITWELL



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EIGHT SONGS TO MY SISTER GEORGIA: 8. THE SERENADE AT MORNING, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: A page sings
Last Line: "among those green leaves sigh this serenade."


A Page sings:
"BIRD-BREASTED flutes by the green waterfalls,
The green bird-bosomed waterfalls,
Sound where the roses, flaxen fruits, sing madrigals.

Now in this smoother greener shade
Listen to my serenade.

Where still the squirrel shadows brush the leaves
My carriage-wheels are like the gilt wheat-sheaves.

The smiles like water flash . . .
And, cataracts that dash,
My horses' hoofs
Seem, and the carriage seems the sun's gold phaeton, sheaves
Of corn enwreathe it, trails of buds and leaves.

But in your gold-touched house you still do keep,
Like the bright Sun, a leaf-pavilioned sleep.

The Sun that blackamoor, dark page,
Plays on his flute till through the golden cage
Of the bright wind beneath your window tall
The gilded spangles fall.

The gardener waters your bright orange-tree
And each gold water-drop seems a dark drowsy bee.

The Sun, that blackamoor,
Comes in a bird-mask
With a bird-flute, and asks
Which is the gilded Fleece and which the long and legendary Sea,
The Sleeper's tangled hair or water-cold gold orange tree.

Then from the perfumed stem and wind-smooth fruits do pour
Such amber tears as the rich Sun doth weep
Among his thick pavilion of leaves
In his deep noonday sleep.

I sang of country pleasures when great Pan
With Faunus tumbled and like rough bears ran.

Gilt tents of hay bear butter-yellow dew,
And leaves bear green bird-breasted dew that flew

To whisper at a maiden's leafy sill
Of country love among the leaves, the chill

Of eve; the squirrel-shadows brush the leaves
And the bees' nests are rustling like gilt sheaves;
On squirrel-ruddy grass the satyrs roam,
Wag beards of straw, suck honey from the comb,

In Pan's huge forest . . . country temples green
The huge leaves seem, their gold-mosaic'd sheen
Is dark as honeycombs . . . the bees write 'Corydon'
And 'Amaryllis' with gold honeycombs upon

The tents of country hay and roses' leaves;
And there the butter seems like gilded sheaves,

The winds, those honeyed thieves, from each rose-bell
Steal honey that is dark as Philomel.

But in your golden house
Not even the Sun doth rouse
You, though among the corn,
Rustling like the morn,
The reapers with the green bird-blood within their veins
And shadows green as leaves that stain
Their apple-bright and ruddy flesh, again

Wake, the bird-breasted greenest dew
Lay like a bird and flew
Dying upon the leaves and sighing
Of country love that in the earth is lying.

'Green dew, bird-breasted dew,
Fly, fly into her breast,
Sing to her through the leaves
And window eaves
Until she too shall turn into a bird,
Fly like a bird to me,
And seek her rest
Among my greenest leaves.'
I heard
That golden-fingered arborist the Shade
Among those green leaves sigh this serenade."





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