The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Sunken Garden, and Other Poems

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Title: The Sunken Garden, and Other Poems

Author: Walter De la Mare

Release date: October 17, 2015 [eBook #50240]
Most recently updated: January 25, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SUNKEN GARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS *** 






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THE SUNKEN GARDEN


This is the second book issued by the Beaumont Press 20 copies have been
printed on Japanese vellum signed by the author and numbered 1 to 20 and
250 copies on hand-made paper numbered 21 to 270. This is No. 200.



T H E     S U N K E N

G A R D E N

AND   OTHER   POEMS   BY

WALTER   DE   LA   MARE








CONTENTS




 Page


THE LITTLE SALAMANDER


When I go free,9


THE SUNKEN GARDEN


Speak not—whisper not;10


THE RIDDLERS


‘Thou Solitary!’ the Blackbird cried,11


MRS. GRUNDY


‘Step very softly, sweet Quiet-foot,13


THE DARK HOUSE


See this house, how dark it is15


MISTRESS FELL


‘Whom seek you here, sweet Mistress Fell?’16


THE STRANGER


In the woods as I did walk,18


THE FLIGHT


How do the days press on, and lay19


THE REMONSTRANCE


I was at peace until you came20


THE EXILE


I am that Adam who, with Snake for guest,21


EYES


O Strange Devices that alone divide22


THE TRYST


Why in my heart, O grief,23


THE OLD MEN


Old and alone, sit we,25


THE FOOL’S SONG


Never, no, never, listen too long,26


THE DREAMER


O Thou who giving helm and sword,27


MOTLEY


Come, Death,  have a word with thee;28


TO E. T.: 1917.


You sleep too well—too far away,31


ALEXANDER


It was the great Alexander,32


FOR ALL THE GRIEF


For all the grief I have given with words34


FAREWELL


When I lie where shades of darkness35


CLEAR EYES


Clear eyes do dim at last,36


MUSIC


When Music sounds, gone is the earth I know,37


IN A CHURCHYARD


As children bidden to go to bed38


TWO HOUSES


In the strange city of life39


COLOPHON40












THE LITTLE SALAMANDER: TO MARGOT

WHEN I GO FREE,

I think ’twill be

A night of stars and snow,

And the wild fires of frost shall light

My footsteps as I go;

Nobody—nobody will be there

With groping touch, or sight,

To see me in my bush of hair

Dance burning through the night.












THE SUNKEN GARDEN

SPEAK NOT—WHISPER NOT;

Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;

Softly on the evening hour,

Secret herbs their spices shower,

Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh,

Lean-stalked, purple lavender;

Hides within her bosom, too,

All her sorrows, bitter rue.



Breathe not—trespass not;

Of this green and darkling spot,

Latticed from the moon’s beams,

Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;

Perchance upon its darkening air,

The unseen ghosts of children fare,

Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,

Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;

While, unmoved, to watch and ward,

’Mid its gloom’d and daisied sward,

Stands with bowed and dewy head

That one little leaden Lad.












THE RIDDLERS

‘THOU SOLITARY!’ the Blackbird cried,

‘I, from the happy Wren,

Linnet and Blackcap, Woodlark, Thrush,

Perched all upon a sweetbrier bush,

Have come at cold of midnight-tide

To ask thee, Why and when

Grief smote thy heart so thou dost sing

In solemn hush of evening,

So sorrowfully, lovelorn Thing—

Nay, nay, not sing, but rave, but wail,

Most melancholic Nightingale?

Do not the dews of darkness steep

All pinings of the day in sleep?

Why, then, when rocked in starry nest

We mutely couch, secure, at rest,

Doth thy lone heart delight to make

Music for sorrow’s sake?’



A Moon was there. So still her beam,

It seemed the whole world lay a-dream,

Lulled by the watery sea.

And from her leafy night-hung nook

Upon this stranger soft did look

The Nightingale: sighed he:—



‘’Tis strange, my friend; the Kingfisher

But yestermorn conjured me here

Out of his green and gold to say

Why thou, in splendour of the noon

Wearest of colour but golden shoon.

And else dost thee array

In a most sombre suit of black?

“Surely,” he sighed, “some load of grief,

Past all our thinking—and belief—

Must weigh upon his back!”

Do, then, in turn, tell me,—If joy

Thy heart as well as voice employ,

Why dost thou now, most Sable, shine

In plumage woefuller far than mine?

Thy silence is a sadder thing

Than any dirge I sing!’



Thus then these two small birds, perched there,

Breathed a strange riddle both did share

Yet neither could expound.

And we—who sing but as we can,

In the small knowledge of a man—

Have we an answer found?

Nay, some are happy whose delight

Is hid even from themselves from sight;

And some win peace who spend

The skill of words to sweeten despair

Of finding consolation where

Life has but one dark end;

Who, in rapt solitude, tell o’er

A tale as lovely as forlore

Into the midnight air.












MRS. GRUNDY

‘STEP VERY SOFTLY, sweet Quiet-foot,

Stumble not, whisper not, smile not:

By this dark ivy stoop cheek and brow.

Still even thy heart! What seest thou?’



‘High coifed, broad-browed, aged, suave yet grim,

A large flat face, eyes keenly dim,

Staring at nothing—that’s me!—and yet,

With a hate one could never, no, never forget....’



‘This is my world, my garden, my home,

Hither my father bade mother to come

And bear me out of the dark into light,

And happy I was in her tender sight.



‘And then, thou frail flower, she died and went,

Forgetting my pitiless banishment,

And that Old Woman—an Aunt—she said,

Came hither, lodged, fattened, and made her bed.



‘Oh yes, thou most blessed, from Monday to Sunday

Has lived on me, preyed on me, Mrs. Grundy:

Called me, “dear Nephew”; on each of those chairs

Has gloated in righteousness, heard my prayers.



‘Why didst thou dare the thorns of the grove,

Timidest trespasser, huntress of love?

Now thou has peeped, and now dost know

What kind of creature is thine for foe.



‘Not that she’ll tear out thy innocent eyes,

Poison thy mouth with deviltries.

Watch thou, wait thou: soon will begin

The guile of a voice: hark!... “Come in, Come in!”’












THE DARK HOUSE

SEE THIS HOUSE, how dark it is

Beneath its vast-boughed trees!

Not one trembling leaflet cries

To that Watcher in the skies—

‘Remove, remove thy searching gaze,

Innocent, of Heaven’s ways,

Brood not, Moon, so wildly bright,

On secrets hidden from sight.’



‘Secrets,’ sighs the night-wind,

‘Vacancy is all I find;

Every keyhole I have made

Wail a summons, faint and sad,

No voice ever answers me,

Only vacancy.’

‘Once, once ...’ the cricket shrills,

And far and near the quiet fills

With its tiny voice, and then

Hush falls again.



Mute shadows creeping slow

Mark how the hours go,

Every stone is mouldering slow,

And the least winds that blow

Some minutest atom shake,

Some fretting ruin make

In roof and walls. How black it is

Beneath these thick-boughed trees!












MISTRESS FELL

‘WHOM seek you here, sweet Mistress Fell?’

‘One who loved me passing well.

Dark his eye, wild his face—

Stranger, if in this lonely place

Bide such an one, then, prythee, say

I am come here to-day.’



‘Many his like, Mistress Fell?’

‘I did not look, so cannot tell.

Only this I surely know,

When his voice called me, I must go;

Touched me his fingers, and my heart

Leapt at the sweet pain’s smart.’



‘Why did he leave you, Mistress Fell?’

‘Magic laid its dreary spell.—

Stranger, he was fast asleep;

Into his dream I tried to creep;

Called his name, soft was my cry:

He answered—not one sigh.



‘The flower and the thorn are here;

Falleth the night-dew, cold and clear;

Out of her bower the bird replies,

Mocking the dark with ecstasies:

See how the earth’s green grass doth grow,

Praising what sleeps below!



‘Thus have they told me. And I come,

As flies the wounded wild-bird home.

Not tears I give; but all that he

Clasped in his arms sweet charity;

All that he loved—to him I bring

For a close whispering.’












THE STRANGER

IN THE WOODS AS I DID WALK,

Dappled with the moon’s beam,

I did with a Stranger talk,

And his name was Dream.



Spurred his heel, dark his cloak,

Shady-wide his bonnet’s brim;

His horse beneath a silvery oak

Grazed as I talked with him.



Softly his breast-brooch burned and shone;

Hill and deep were in his eyes;

One of his hands held mine, and one

The fruit that makes men wise.



Wonderly strange was earth to see,

Flowers white as milk did gleam;

Spread to Heaven the Assyrian Tree

Over my head with Dream.



Dews were still betwixt us twain;

Stars a trembling beauty shed;

Yet—not a whisper comes again

Of the words he said.












THE FLIGHT

HOW DO THE DAYS press on, and lay

Their fallen locks at evening down,

Whileas the stars in darkness play

And moonbeams weave a crown—



A crown of flower-like light in heaven,

Where in the hollow arch of space

Morn’s mistress dreams, and the Pleiads seven

Stand watch about her place.



Stand watch—O days no number keep

Of hours when this dark clay is blind.

When the world’s clocks are dumb in sleep

’Tis then I seek my kind.












THE REMONSTRANCE

I WAS AT PEACE UNTIL YOU CAME

And set a careless mind aflame;

I lived in quiet; cold, content;

All longing in safe banishment,

Until your ghostly lips and eyes

Made wisdom unwise.



Naught was in me to tempt your feet

To seek a lodging. Quite forgot

Lay the sweet solitude we two

In childhood used to wander through;

Time’s cold had closed my heart about;

And shut you out.



Well, and what then?... O vision grave,

Take all the little all I have!

Strip me of what in voiceless thought

Life’s kept of life, unhoped, unsought!—

Reverie and dream that memory must

Hide deep in dust!



This only I say,—Though cold and bare

The haunted house you have chosen to share,

Still ’neath its walls the moonbeam goes

And trembles on the untended rose;

Still o’er its broken roof-tree rise

The starry arches of the skies;

And ’neath your lightest word shall be

The thunder of an ebbing sea.












THE EXILE

I AM that Adam who, with Snake for guest,

Hid anguished eyes upon Eve’s piteous breast.

I am that Adam who, with broken wings,

Fled from the Seraph’s brazen trumpetings.

Betrayed and fugitive, I still must roam

A world where sin—and beauty—whisper of home.



Oh, from wide circuit, shall at length I see

Pure daybreak lighten again on Eden’s tree?

Loosed from remorse and hope and love’s distress,

Enrobe me again in my lost nakedness?

No more with wordless grief a loved one grieve,

But to heaven’s nothingness re-welcome Eve?












EYES

O STRANGE DEVICES that alone divide

The seër from the seen—

The very highway of earth’s pomp and pride

That lies between

The traveller and the cheating, sweet delight

Of where he longs to be,

But which, bound hand and foot, he, close on night,

Can only see.












THE TRYST

WHY IN MY HEART, O GRIEF,

Dost thou in beauty bide?

Dead is my well-content,

And buried deep my pride.

Cold are their stones, beloved,

To hand and side.



The shadows of even are gone,

Shut are the day’s clear flowers,

Now have her birds left mute

Their singing bowers,

Lone shall we be, we twain,

In the night hours.



Thou with thy cheek on mine,

And dark hair loosed, shalt see

Take the far stars for fruit

The cypress tree,

And in the yew’s black

Shall the moon be.



We will tell no old tales,

Nor heed if in wandering air

Die a lost song of love

Or the once fair;

Still as well-water be

The thoughts we share!



And, while the ghosts keep

Tryst from chill sepulchres,

Dreamless our gaze shall sleep,

And sealed our ears;

Heart unto heart will speak,

Without tears.



O, thy veiled, lovely face—

Joy’s strange disguise—

Shall be the last to fade

From these rapt eyes,

Ere the first dart of daybreak

Pierce the skies.












THE OLD MEN

OLD AND ALONE, SIT WE,

Caged, riddle-rid men;

Lost to earth’s ‘Listen!’ and ‘See!’

Thought’s ‘Wherefore?’ and ‘When?’



Only far memories stray

Of a past once lovely, but now

Wasted and faded away,

Like green leaves from the bough.



Vast broods the silence of night,

The ruinous moon

Lifts on our faces her light,

Whence all dreaming is gone.



We speak not; trembles each head;

In their sockets our eyes are still;

Desire as cold as the dead;

Without wonder or will.



And One, with a lanthorn, draws near,

At clash with the moon in our eyes:

‘Where art thou?’ he asks: ‘I am here,’

One by one we arise.



And none lifts a hand to withhold

A friend from the touch of that foe:

Heart cries unto heart, ‘Thou art old!’

Yet reluctant, we go.












THE FOOL’S SONG

NEVER, NO, NEVER, listen too long,

To the chattering wind in the willows, the night bird’s song.



’Tis sad in sooth to lie under the grass,

But none too gladsome to wake and grow cold where life’s shadows pass.



Dumb the old Toll-Woman squats,

And, for every green copper battered and worn, doles out Nevers and Nots.



I know a Blind Man, too,

Who with a sharp ear listens and listens the whole world through.



Oh, sit we snug to our feast,

With platter and finger and spoon—and good victuals at least.












THE DREAMER

O THOU who giving helm and sword,

Gav’st, too, the rusting rain,

And starry dark’s all tender dews

To blunt and stain:



Out of the battle I am sped,

Unharmed, yet stricken sore;

A living shape ’mid whispering shades

On Lethe’s shore.



No trophy in my hands I bring,

To this sad, sighing stream,

The neighings and the trumps and cries

Were but a dream—a dream.



Traitor to life, of life betrayed—

O, of thy mercy deep,

A dream my all, the all I ask

Is sleep.












MOTLEY

COME, Death, I’d have a word with thee;

And thou, poor Innocency;

And Love—a lad with broken wing;

And Pity, too:

The Fool shall sing to you,

As Fools will sing.



Ay, music hath small sense,

And a tune’s soon told,

And Earth is old,

And my poor wits are dense;

Yet have I secrets,—dark, my dear,

To breathe you all: Come near.

And lest some hideous listener tells,

I’ll ring my bells.



They’re all at war!—

Yes, yes, their bodies go

’Neath burning sun and icy star

To chaunted songs of woe,

Dragging cold cannon through a mire

Of rain and blood and spouting fire,

The new moon glinting hard on eyes

Wide with insanities!



Hush!... I use words

I hardly know the meaning of;

And the mute birds

Are glancing at Love

From out their shade of leaf and flower,

Trembling at treacheries

Which even in noonday cower.

Heed, heed not what I said

Of frenzied hosts of men,

More fools than I,

On envy, hatred fed,

Who kill, and die—

Spake I not plainly, then?

Yet Pity whispered, ‘Why?’



Thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go.

Mine was not news for child to know,

And Death—no ears hath. He hath supped where creep

Eyeless worms in hush of sleep;

Yet, when he smiles, the hand he draws

Athwart his grinning jaws—

Faintly the thin bones rattle, and—There, there;

Hearken how my bells in the air

Drive away care!...



Nay, but a dream I had

Of a world all mad.

Not simple happy mad like me,

Who am mad like an empty scene

Of water and willow tree,

Where the wind hath been;

But that foul Satan-mad,

Who rots in his own head,

And counts the dead,

Not honest one—and two—

But for the ghosts they were,

Brave, faithful, true,

When head in air,

In Earth’s clear green and blue

Heaven they did share

With Beauty who bade them there....



There, now! Death goes—

Mayhap I’ve wearied him.

Ay, and the light doth dim,

And asleep ’s the rose,

And tired Innocence

In dreams is hence....

Come, Love, my lad,

Nodding that drowsy head,

’Tis time thy prayers were said!












TO E. T.: 1917

YOU SLEEP TOO WELL—too far away,

For sorrowing word to soothe or wound;

Your very quiet seems to say

How longed-for a peace you have found.



Else, had not death so lured you on,

You would have grieved—’twixt joy and fear—

To know how my small loving son

Had wept for you, my dear.












ALEXANDER

IT WAS THE GREAT ALEXANDER,

Capped with a golden helm,

Sate in the ages, in his floating ship,

In a dead calm.



Voices of sea-maids singing

Wandered across the deep:

The sailors labouring on their oars

Rowed, as in sleep.



All the high pomp of Asia,

Charmed by that siren lay,

Out of their weary and dreaming minds,

Faded away.



Like a bold boy sate their Captain,

His glamour withered and gone,

In the souls of his brooding mariners,

While the song pined on.



Time like a falling dew,

Life like the scene of a dream

Laid between slumber and slumber,

Only did seem....



O Alexander, then,

In all us mortals too,

Wax thou not bold—too bold

On the wave dark-blue!



Come the calm, infinite night,

Who then will hear

Aught save the singing

Of the sea-maids clear?












FOR ALL THE GRIEF

FOR all the grief I have given with words

May now a few clear flowers blow,

In the dust, and the heat, and the silence of birds,

Where the lonely go.



For the thing unsaid that heart asked of me

Be a dark, cool water calling—calling

To the footsore, benighted, solitary,

When the shadows are falling.



O, be beauty for all my blindness,

A moon in the air where the weary wend,

And dews burdened with loving-kindness

In the dark of the end.












FAREWELL

WHEN I lie where shades of darkness

Shall no more assail mine eyes,

Nor the rain make lamentation

When the wind sighs;

How will fare the world whose wonder

Was the very proof of me?

Memory fades, must the remembered

Perishing be?



Oh, when this my dust surrenders

Hand, foot, lip, to dust again,

May these loved and loving faces

Please other men!

May the rusting harvest hedgerow

Still the Traveller’s Joy entwine,

And as happy children gather

Posies once mine.



Look thy last on all things lovely,

Every hour. Let no night

Seal thy sense in deathly slumber

Till to delight

Thou have paid thy utmost blessing;

Since that all things thou wouldst praise

Beauty took from those who loved them

In other days.












CLEAR EYES

CLEAR EYES do dim at last,

And cheeks outlive their rose.

Time, heedless of the past,

No loving-kindness knows;

Chill unto mortal lip

Still Lethe flows.



Griefs, too, but brief while stay,

And sorrow, being o’er,

Its salt tears shed away,

Woundeth the heart no more.

Stealthily lave those waters

That solemn shore.



Ah, then, sweet face burn on,

While yet quick memory lives!

And Sorrow, ere thou art gone,

Know that my heart forgives—

Ere yet, grown cold in peace,

It loves not, nor grieves.












MUSIC

WHEN music sounds, gone is the earth I know,

And all her lovely things even lovelier grow;

Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees,

Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies.



When music sounds, out of the water rise

Naiads whose beauty dims my waking eyes,

Rapt in strange dream burns each enchanted face,

With solemn echoing stirs their dwelling-place.



When music sounds, all that I was I am

Ere to this haunt of brooding dust I came;

While from Time’s woods break into distant song

The swift-winged hours, as I hasten along.












IN A CHURCHYARD

AS children bidden to go to bed

Puff out their candle’s light,

Since that the natural dark is best

For them to take their flight



Into the realm of sleep: so we

God’s bidding did obey;

Not without fear our tired eyes shut,

And wait—and wait—the day.












TWO HOUSES

IN THE STRANGE CITY OF LIFE

Two houses I know well:

One wherein Silence a garden hath,

And one where Dark doth dwell.



Roof unto roof they stand,

Shadowing the dizzied street,

Where Vanity flaunts her gilded booths

In the noontide glare and heat.



Green-graped upon their walls

The ancient, hoary vine

Hath clustered their carven lichenous stones

With tendril serpentine.



And ever and anon,

Dazed in that clamorous throng,

I thirst for the soundless fount that stills

Those orchards mute of song.



Knock, knock! nor knock in vain.

Heart, all thy secrets tell

Where Silence a fast-sealed garden hath

Where Dark doth dwell.









HERE ENDS THE SUNKEN GARDEN AND

Other Poems by Walter De La Mare the Typography

and Binding arranged by Cyril William Beaumont

Printed on his Press in London and Published

by him at 75 Charing Cross Road in the

City of Westminster Completed

on the first day of December

MDCCCCXVII







The Binding has been

executed by F. Sangorski and G. Sutcliffe





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