Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TROY PARK: 4. THE PLEASURE GARDENS, by EDITH SITWELL Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Do you remember, damon, the hot noons Last Line: Songs from some far-off land, -- the distant music! | ||||||||
DO you remember, Damon, the hot noons And the paths bordered with vast unknown gardens Of apes, grown men? There through the iron gates Of the fantastic gardens grow great flowers, And those small heart-shaped flowers that have the eyes Of little sisters in our long-dead childhood. You are a child again, with your young face Plunged in the calyx of the great dream-flowers Smelling them . . . they die away like music Within your brain, like all the sounds of youth. Then from the landscape sounds a note of menace From the fantastic darkness of the forests; There are vast plains beyond our sight, afar, And there amid the green baize thickened leaves Live all the creaking gods of kitchen gardens . . . Outside their realm, in chickeny wet grass The farmer and the gardener as they pass Have faces that seem feathered like the wind, Or Mercury, and Darkness hides behind Their faces like the empty wind's blind mask. And deep within the broken laurel groves, Are those that seem our own prophetic shadows. The old Bacchantes of the suburbs, sit Where sunlight wraps their unloved bones with warmth, Stare like the dead at something none may see, Mumble unspoken words that died long since, For want of one to listen, year on year. "I sit a little, warming in the sun This crumbling dust of mine, and to my heart I hold a little blue-eyed fair-haired ghost -- But oh, he never needs my breast-milk now, -- My breasts have withered for the want of him And I have nothing left for Death to take!" "How happy are you with your little ghost! But I am old and cold and have small greeds, My dreams are all the same, of daily needs . . . For oh, the poor dreams fade away, my dear. Perhaps they have grown tired; we hardly hear Their music now; or else they were too young To bear with us; for the harsh world is tired, We make the world impatient, grown so slow. All day we creep through the unending city . . . The vulturine wide light that knows no pity Devours our aged hearts, defenceless, old. Yet though our eyes are dim with age, we know The unfriendly faces, and our friendless bones Feel their unburiedness, struck with death's chill." So, deep within the broken laurel groves, These that seem our own prophetic shadows, The old Bacchantes of the suburbs, sit Where sunlight wraps their unloved bones with warmth, Stare like the dead at something none may see. But here in this unknown and flashing summer weather We walk among the bosquets, once more young, And lovely now that we may walk together . . . Oh, the strange people . . . the child paladins From some fantastic delicate pilgrimage, The young mammas, with shadows lengthening Into great birds that sing among the gardens Songs from some far-off land, -- the distant music! | 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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