Classic and Contemporary Poetry
VARIATIONS ON A THEME: ELEGY ON DEAD FASHION; TO THOMAS BALSTON, by EDITH SITWELL Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Queen venus' old historians seem like bees Last Line: Some memory of what I was, and weep. | ||||||||
QUEEN VENUS' old historians seem like bees That suck their honey from the thick lime-trees; Behind their honeyed lattices all day, As murmurous as thick-leaved lime-trees, they Dream cells of Time away in murmuring o'er The talk of little people gone before, Within their palaces until gold eves Bring them to windows in the tree-tops' leaves. Manteaux espagnoles by the water's sheen, Where trees resemble a great pelerine, Are spread about the groups upon the lawns Smooth as an almond's husk, or coat of fawns. And cavaliers and ladies on the grass Watch Chloe and young Damon as they pass, -- The shepherdess that runs from her swain's kiss, Through leafy nets in a gown a l'Amadis That rustles like the trembling evening, Which falling on the lawns and brakes will bring Roucoulement of doves, and veiled belles Preening their cloaks of cashmere tourterelles. Oh, voices speaking by the waterfall! Heroic statues cast a shadow tall, And rustic faces where long water runs Are now transformed to gold five-petalled suns. But the historians murmur still like bees: "How old is Venus? older than the trees, Does she remember still the ancient bliss, Grown dead and rotten, of Adonis' kiss?" Through mulberry trees a candle's thick gold thread --, So seems the summer sun to the sad Dead; That cackling candle's loud cacophonies Will wake not Plato, Aristophanes, For all their wisdom. There in the deep groves They must forget Olympus and their loves, Lying beneath the coldest flower we see On the young green-blooming strawberry. The nymphs are dead like the great summer roses, Only an Abyssinian wind dozes; Cloyed with late honey are his dark wings' sheens, Yet, once on these lone crags, nymphs bright as queens Walked with elegant footsteps through light leaves, Where only elegiac air now grieves, -- For the light leaves are sere and whisper dead Echoes of elegances lost and fled. Queen Thetis wore pelisses of tissue Of marine blue or violet, or deep blue, Beside the softest flower-bells of the seas. In winter, under thick swan-bosomed trees The colours most in favour were marine, Blue Louise, gris bois, grenate, myrtle green; Beside the ermine bells of the lorn foam -- Those shivering flower-bells -- nymphs light-footed roam No more, nor walk within vast, bear-furred woods Where cross owls mocked them from their leafy hoods, And once, the ermine leaves of the cold snow Seemed fashion leaves of eighty years ago. -- When first as thin as young Prince Jamie's plaid The tartan leaves upon the branches laid Showed feathered flowers as brown as any gannet, And thin as January or as Janet, -- Chione, Cleopatra, Boreas' daughters Walked beside the stream's drake-plumaged waters In crinolines of plaided sarsenet, Scotch caps, where those drake-curling waters wet Their elegant insteps. -- Household nymphs must wear For humble tasks the ponceau gros d'hiver, -- (Tisiphone the Fury, like a dire Wind raising up Balmoral towers of fire). Another wind's small drum through thin leaves taps, And Venus' children wearing their Scotch caps Or a small toque Hongroise that is round-brimmed, And with a wing from Venus' pigeons trimmed, Run now with hoops and dolls they call "cher coeur," Chase Cupid in his jacket artilleur, Play on the cliffs where like the goats' thick locks The coarse grass grows, and clamber on the rocks. Above the forest, whence he shot the does, Was Jupiter's vast shooting-box of snows -- His blunderbuss's ancient repercussions Fired but pears and apples, furred as Russians. He threw his gun down and began to curse, When up ran Venus' children with their nurse: "See, Grandpapa, rocks like Balmoral's towers Held still these brown and gannet-plumaged flowers." Then underneath the hairy and the bestial Skies of winter ripening, a celestial Bucolic comedy of subtle meaning Grew with rough summer suns, until with preening Of soft bird-breasted leaves, again we knew The secret of how hell and heaven grew. Where walked great Jupiter, and like a peasant Shot the partridge, grouse, and hare, and pheasant, In the gods' country park there was a farm Where all the gentle beasts came to no harm, Left to run wild. And there in that great wood Was Juno's dairy, cold as any bud, With milk and cream, as sweet and thick as yellow Apricots and melons, in the mellow Noon when dairy maids must bear it through Lanes full of trilling flowers and budding dew. And then beside the swanskin pool where pansies And strawberries and other pretty fancies With the wild cherries sing their madrigals, The goddesses walked by the waterfalls; But now beside the water's thin flower-bells No bustles seem rose castles and tourelles Beside the little lake that seems of thin And plumeless and too delicate swanskin; Nor sparks and rays from caleche wheels that roll Mirror the haycocks with gilt rays like Sol Where trees seemed icebergs, -- rose and green reflections Of the passing nymphs and their confections. -- In summer, when nymph Echo was serene On these lone crags walked many a beauteous queen, As lovely as the light and spangled breeze Beside the caves and myrtle groves and trees. One wood-nymph wore a deep black velvet bonnet With blackest ivy leaves for wreaths upon it, -- Shading her face as lovely as the fountains While she descended from deep-wooded mountains, And with the wood-gods hiding, Charlottine, Boreas' daughter, wore a crinoline. So fair with water-flowing hair was she, That crinoline would shine from crag and tree. When the gold spangles on the water seen Were like the twanging of a mandoline, And all the ripples were like ripest fruits That grow from the deep water's twisted roots, The water-nymph, dark Mademoiselle Persane, On blond sands wore an Algerine turbane; Of blue velours d'Afrique was the pelisse Of Grisi the ondine, and like the fleece Of water gods, or gold trees on the strand, Her gold hair fell like fountains on the sand, -- The thick gold sand beside the siren waves, -- Like honey-cells those sands and fountain caves. Dream of the picnics where trees, sylvan, wan, Shaded our feasts of nightingale and swan, With wines as plumed as birds of paradise, Or Persian winds, to drown the time that flies! Then, on the shaven ice-green grass one sees Roses and cherries and ripe strawberries Bobbing at our lips like scarlet fire Between the meshes of the light's gold wire, And the bacchantes with their dew-wet hair, Like velvety dark leaves of vineyards, wear Great bunched tufts of African red coral Whose glints with sheen of dew and leaves now quarrel. Here in a sheep-thick shade of tree and root Nymphs nurse each fawn whose pretty golden foot Skipped there. They, milk of flaxen lilies, sip From a sweet cup that has a coral lip, In that green darkness. Melons dark as caves Held thick gold honey for their fountain waves, And there were gourds as wrinkled dark as Pan, Or old Silenus, -- figs whence jewels ran. There in the forest, through the green baize leaves, Walked Artemis, and like the bound-up sheaves Of gilt and rustling-tressed corn, her arrows Through greenhouses of vegetable marrows She aimed; like the vast serres-chaudes of the lake, Those greenhouses, her arrows then did break! Her dress was trimmed with straw, her hair streamed bright And glittering as topaz, chrysolite. Among their castles of gold straw entwined With blackest ivy buds and leaves, and lined With lambs' wool, and among the cocks of hay, The satyrs danced the sheep-trot all the day And sometimes stole a gherkin and a marrow, Some strawberries, and a cucumber narrow, Where the straw-coloured harsh leaves hid the root, And only showed the scarlet glistening fruit. In wooded gardens where the green baize leaves Hid fruit that rustled like Ceres' gilt sheaves They danced the galloppade and the mazurka, Cracoviak, cachucha, and the turka, With Fauna and the country deities, Pan's love Eupheme, and the Hyades, -- Phaola and Ambrosia and Eudora, Panope and Eupompe with great Flora, Euryale, the Amazonian queen Whose gown is looped above the yellow sheen Of her bright yellow petticoat, -- the breeze Strewed wild flowers on her straw hat through the trees; And country nymphs with round straw hats deep-brimmed, And at one side with pheasants' feathers trimmed, -- With gowns of green mohair and high kid boots Wherewith they trample radish, strawberry, roots. But far are we from forests of our rest Where the wolf Nature from maternal breast Fed us with strong brown milk . . . those epochs gone, Our eyeless statues weep from blinded stone. And far are we from the innocence of man, When Time's vast sculptures from rough dust began, And natural law and moral were but one, -- Derived from the rich wisdom of the sun. In those deep ages the most primitive And roughest and uncouthest shapes did live Knowing the memory of before their birth, And their soul's life before this uncouth earth. We could remember in that ancient time Of our primeval innocence, a clime Divined deep in the soul, in which the light Of vaster suns gave wisdom to our sight; Now, days like wild beasts desecrate each part Of that forgotten tomb that was our heart; There are more awful ruins hanging there Than those which hang and nod at empty air. Yet still our soul keeps memories of that time In sylvan wildernesses, -- our soul's prime Of wisdom, forests that were god's abode, And Saturn marching in the Dorian mode. But all the nymphs are dead. The sound of fountains Weeps swan-soft elegies to the deep mountains, -- Repeats their laughter, mournful now and slow, To the dead nymph Echo. Long ago Among the pallid roses' spangled sheens On these lone crags nymphs that were bright as queens Walked with elegant footsteps through light leaves Where now a dark-winged southern wind soft grieves, So cloyed with honey he must close his wing. No ondine Grisi now may rise to sing, For the light leaves are sere and whisper dead Echoes of elegances lost and fled. The nymphs are dead. And yet when spring begins The nation of the Dead must feel old sins Wake unremembering bones, eternal, old As Death. Oh, think how these must feel the cold In the deep groves! But here these dead still walk As though they lived, and sigh awhile, and talk. O perfumed nosegay brought for noseless Death! This brightest myrrh can not perfume that breath. The nymphs are dead, -- Syrinx and Dryope And that smooth nymph that changed into a tree. But though the shade, that Ethiopia, sees Their beauty make more bright its treasuries, Their amber blood in porphyry veins still grows Deep in the dark secret of the rose, Though dust are their bright temples in the heat, The nymph parthenope with golden feet. My glittering fire has turned into a ghost, My rose is now cold amber and is lost; Yet from that fire you still could light the sun, And from that amber, bee-winged motes could come; Though grown from rocks and trees, dark as Saint Anne, The little nun-like leaves weep our small span, And eyeless statues in the garden weep For Niobe who by the founts doth sleep, In gardens of a fairy aristocracy That lead downhill to mountain peaks of sea, Where people build like beavers on the sand Among life's common movements, understand That Troy and Babylon were built with bricks; They engineer great wells into the Styx And build hotels upon the peaks of seas Where the small trivial Dead can sit and freeze. Still ancient fanfares sound from mountain gorges Where once Prometheus lit enormous forges: "Debout les morts!" No key when the heart closes: The nymphs are dead like the great summer roses. But Janet, the old wood-god Janus' daughter, All January-thin and blond as water, Runs through the gardens, sees Europa ride Down to the great Swiss mountains of the tide, Though in the deep woods, budding violets And strawberries as round as triolets Beneath their swanskin leaves feel all alone. . . . The golden feet that crushed them now are gone. Beside the Alps of sea, each crinoline Of muslin and of gauze and grenadine Sweeps by the Mendelssohnian waterfall, O'er beaver-smooth grass, by the castle wall, Beside the thick mosaic of the leaves. Left by the glamour of some huger eves The thick gold spangles on those leaves are seen Like the sharp twanging of a mandoline; And there, with Fortune, I too sit apart Feeling the jewel turn flower, the flower turn heart, Knowing not goddess's from beggar's bones, Nor all death's gulf between those semitones. We who were proud and various as the wave, -- What strange companions the unreasoning grave Will give us . . . wintry Prudence's empty skull May lie near that of Venus the dead trull! There are great diamonds hidden in the mud Waiting Prometheus' fire and Time's vast flood, Wild glistening flowers that spring from these could know The secret of how hell and heaven grow. But at a wayside station near the rock Where vast Prometheus lies, another bock Is brought by Ganymede . . . why dream the Flood Would save those diamonds hidden in the mud? The farmer on his donkey now rides down The mountain side with angels' eggs the town Will buy, beside the mountain peaks of sea And gardens of the fairy aristocracy, And ladies in their carriages drive down The mountain to the gardens of the town, And the hot wind, that little Savoyard, Decked them with wild flowers a la montagnard. The wood-nymphs Nettie, Alexandrine, tear Balmoral gowns made for this mountain wear, -- White veils; each Fauchon-emigre bonnet Bears coronets of berries wild upon it; Huge as the great gold sun, each parasol That hides it; fluid zephyrs now extol Antiope's short bell-shaped pelerine Worn lest gauze ribbons of the rain be seen. "Oh the blond hair of Fortune in the grove! Lean from your carriage, hold her lest she rove." "Her face is winter, wrinkled, peaceless, mired, Black as the cave where Cerberus was sired. -- O soul, my Lazarus! There was a clime Deep in your tomb of flesh, defying time, When a god's soul played there, began to dance Deep in that tomb with divine, deathless Chance. But that huge god grew wearied of our game And all the lion-like waterfalls grew tame. Venus, a statue mouldering on the wall, Noseless and broken now, forgetting all The fanfares, knows that Phoebus gilds her still On pastoral afternoons; but she is chill. Venus, you too have known the anguished cold, The crumbling years, the fear of growing old! Here in this theatre of redistributions, This old arena built for retributions, We rose imperial from primeval slime Through architecture of our bones by Time; Now night like lava flows without a chart From unremembering craters of the heart, Anguished with their dead fires. -- Beneath the caves And crags the Numidean sibyl raves; We hear the sibyl crying Prophecy. 'There where the kiss seems immortality I prophesy the Worm . . . there, in the kiss, He'll find his most imperial luxuries.'" * * * * * Where mountains, millers' dusty bags, seem full Of Priam's gold, and all the black sheep's wool Of thunderstorms, and grass in forests floats As green as Tyrolean peasants' petticoats, Dead Venus drove in her barouche, her shawl As mauve as mountain distance covering all, As she swept o'er the plain with her postillions That were black and haughty as Castillians. There, high above the thickest forests were The steepest high-walled castles of the air; And paths led to those castles that were bordered With great gardens, neat and walled and ordered With rivers, feathered masks, and pots of peas Mournful beneath the vast and castled trees, Where gardeners clip the strange wind's glittering fleece. Oh, how that wind can blow through a pelisse! Miss Ellen and Miss Harriet, the ondines, Bore baskets full of velvet nectarines And walnuts, over wooden trellissed bridges That cross the streams and the steep mountain ridges. They wore straw-coloured crinolines of faille Beneath their shady bonnets made of paille, -- Their melancholy laughter ever sounds Through castled trees and over castle grounds. But I am sad, and by the wrinkled lake, Where the great mauve flowers will never wake, But drip with sleep and dew, I read this thin, Dry, withered book of delicate swanskin, And find a tale of an Olympian glade Where Psyche has become a kitchenmaid; The world, that pitiful old catchpenny, Whines at her booth for pence, and finds too many, Showing the gods no larger than ourselves, And twittering bird-like from the rocky shelves Of this Olympus, and no prophecy They roar, but whisper triviality. The ancient castle wall of Chaos nods. Through gaps of ruined air and withered pods A showman came; he smiles like Time and mocks Me, takes his marionettes from their small box, -- The gods, Time-crumbled into marionettes. Death frays their ageless bodies, hunger frets Them, till at last, like us, they dance Upon the old dull string pulled now by Chance. This is the game the apeish shuddering dust Plays for the market and the house of lust; There are a thousand deaths the spirit dies Unknown to the sad Dead that we despise. Still ladies in their carriages drive down The mountain to the gardens of the town, And the hot wind, that little Savoyard, Decked them with wild flowers a la montagnard. Rich as a tomb each dress! oh, pity these! I think the rich died young, and no one sees The young loved face show for a fading while Through that death-mask, the sad and cynic smile. * * * * * These living skeletons blown by the wind Were Cleopatra, Thais . . . age unkind Has shrunken them so feeble and so small That Death will never comfort them at all. They are so poor they seem to have put by The outworn fashion of the flesh! They lie Naked and bare in their mortality Waiting for Death to warm them, childishly. Do these Dead, shivering in their raggedness Of outworn flesh, know us more dead, and guess How day rolls down, that vast eternal stone, Shuts each in his accustomed grave, alone? Round the eternal skeleton their dress Is rags, our mountain-high forgetfulness Through centuries is piled above the Dead, Waiting in vain for some remembered tread Upon this rock-bound march that all we made To the eternal empire of the shade, -- To the small sound of Time's drum in the heart. The sound they wait for dies, the steps depart. Come not, O solemn and revengeful Dead, -- Most loving Dead, from your eternal bed To meet this living ghost, lest you should keep Some memory of what I was, and weep. | 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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