Classic and Contemporary Poetry
EIGHT SONGS TO MY SISTER GEORGIA: 8. THE SERENADE AT MORNING, by EDITH SITWELL 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." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUCOLIC COMEDY: EARLY SPRING by EDITH SITWELL BUCOLIC COMEDY: FLEECING TIME by EDITH SITWELL BUCOLIC COMEDY: FOX TROT by EDITH SITWELL BUCOLIC COMEDY: KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID by EDITH SITWELL BUCOLIC COMEDY: SERENADE by EDITH SITWELL BUCOLIC COMEDY: SPINNING SONG by EDITH SITWELL BUCOLIC COMEDY: SPRING by EDITH SITWELL BUCOLIC COMEDY: THE BEAR by EDITH SITWELL BUCOLIC COMEDY: THE DOLL by EDITH SITWELL BUCOLIC COMEDY: THE FOX; FOR ANN PEARN by EDITH SITWELL BUCOLIC COMEDY: WHY by EDITH SITWELL ELEGY: THE GHOST WHOSE LIPS WERE WARM; FOR GEOFFREY GORER by EDITH SITWELL |
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