The Deserted Garden by Alan Seeger

I know a village in a far-off landWhere from a sunny, mountain-girdled plainWith tinted walls a space on either handAnd fed by many an olive-darkened laneThe high-road mounts, and thence a silver bandThrough vineyard slopes above and rolling grain,Winds off to that dim corner of the skiesWhere behind sunset hills a stately city lies.

Here, among trees whose overhanging shadeStrews petals on the little droves below,Pattering townward in the morning weighedWith greens from many an upland garden-row,Runs an old wall; long centuries have frayedIts scalloped edge, and passers to and froHeard never from beyond its crumbling heightSweet laughter ring at noon or plaintive song at night.

But here where little lizards bask and blinkThe tendrils of the trumpet-vine have run,At whose red bells the humming bird to drinkStops oft before his garden feast is done;And rose-geraniums, with that tender pinkThat cloud-banks borrow from the setting sun,Have covered part of this old wall, entwinedWith fair plumbago, blue as evening heavens behind.

And crowning other parts the wild white roseRivals the honey-suckle with the bees.Above the old abandoned orchard showsAnd all within beneath the dense-set trees,Tall and luxuriant the rank grass grows,That settled in its wavy depth one seesGrass melt in leaves, the mossy trunks between,Down fading avenues of implicated green;

Wherein no lack of flowers the verdurous nightWith stars and pearly nebula o'erlay;Azalea-boughs half rosy and half whiteShine through the green and clustering apple-spray,Such as the fairy-queen before her knightWaved in old story, luring him awayWhere round lost isles Hesperian billows breakOr towers loom up beneath the clear, translucent lake;

And under the deep grass blue hare-bells hide,And myrtle plots with dew-fall ever wet,Gay tiger-lilies flammulate and pied,Sometime on pathway borders neatly set,Now blossom through the brake on either side,Where heliotrope and weedy mignonette,With vines in bloom and flower-bearing trees,Mingle their incense all to swell the perfumed breeze,

That sprung like Hermes from his natal caveIn some blue rampart of the curving West,Comes up the valleys where green cornfields wave,Ravels the cloud about the mountain crest,Breathes on the lake till gentle ripples paveIts placid floor; at length a long-loved guest,He steals across this plot of pleasant ground,Waking the vocal leaves to a sweet vernal sound.

Here many a day right gladly have I sped,Content amid the wavy plumes to lie,And through the woven branches overheadWatch the white, ever-wandering clouds go by,And soaring birds make their dissolving bedFar in the azure depths of summer sky,Or nearer that small huntsman of the air,The fly-catcher, dart nimbly from his leafy lair;

Pillowed at ease to hear the merry tuneOf mating warblers in the boughs aboveAnd shrill cicadas whom the hottest noonKeeps not from drowsy song; the mourning dovePours down the murmuring grove his plaintive croonThat like the voice of visionary loveOft have I risen to seek through this green maze(Even as my feet thread now the great world's garden-ways);

And, parting tangled bushes as I passedDown beechen allies beautiful and dim,Perhaps by some deep-shaded pool at lastMy feet would pause, where goldfish poise and swim,And snowy callas' velvet cups are massedAround the mossy, fern-encircled brim.Here, then, that magic summoning would cease,Or sound far off again among the orchard trees.

And here where the blanched lilies of the valeAnd violets and yellow star-flowers teem,And pink and purple hyacinths exhaleTheir heavy fume, once more to drowse and dreamMy head would sink, from many an olden taleDrawing imagination's fervid theme,Or haply peopling this enchanting spotOnly with fair creations of fantastic thought.

For oft I think, in years long since gone by,That gentle hearts dwelt here and gentle handsStored all this bowery bliss to beautifyThe paradise of some unsung romance;Here, safe from all except the loved one's eye,'Tis sweet to think white limbs were wont to glance,Well pleased to wanton like the flowers and shareTheir simple loveliness with the enamored air.

Thrice dear to them whose votive fingers deckedThe altars of First Love were these green ways,These lawns and verdurous brakes forever fleckedWith the warm sunshine of midsummer days;Oft where the long straight allies intersectAnd marble seats surround the open space,Where a tiled pool and sculptured fountain stand,Hath Evening found them seated, silent, hand in hand.

When twilight deepened, in the gathering shadeBeneath that old titanic cypress row,Whose sombre vault and towering colonnadeDwarfed the enfolded forms that moved below,Oft with close steps these happy lovers strayed,Till down its darkening aisle the sunset glowGrew less and patterning the garden floorFaint flakes of filtering moonlight mantled more and more.

And the strange tempest that a touch impartsThrough the mid fibre of the molten frame,When the sweet flesh in early youth assertsIts heyday verve and little hints enflame,Disturbed them as they walked; from their full heartsWelled the soft word, and many a tender nameStrove on their lips as breast to breast they strainedAnd the deep joy they drank seemed never, never drained.

Love's soul that is the depth of starry skiesSet in the splendor of one upturned faceTo beam adorably through half-closed eyes;Love's body where the breadth of summer daysAnd all the beauty earth and air compriseCome to the compass of an arm's embrace,To burn a moment on impassioned lipsAnd yield intemperate joy to quivering finger-tips,

They knew; and here where morning-glories clingRound carven forms of carefullest artifice,They made a bower where every outward thingShould comment on the cause of their own bliss;With flowers of liveliest hue encompassingThat flower that the beloved body isThat rose that for the banquet of Love's beeHas budded all the æons of past eternity.

But their choice seat was where the garden wall,Crowning a little summit, far and near,Looks over tufted treetops onto allThe pleasant outer country; rising hereFrom rustling foliage where cuckoos callOn summer evenings, stands a belvedere,Buff-hued, of antique plaster, overrunWith flowering vines and weatherworn by rain and sun.

Still round the turrets of this antique towerThe bougainvillea hangs a crimson crown,Wistaria-vines and clematis in flower,Wreathing the lower surface further down,Hide the old plaster in a very showerOf motley blossoms like a broidered gown.Outside, ascending from the garden grove,A crumbling stairway winds to the one room above.

And whoso mounts by this dismantled stairFinds the old pleasure-hall, long disarrayed,Brick-tiled and raftered, and the walls foursquareRinged all about with a twofold arcade.Backward dense branches intercept the glareOf afternoon with eucalyptus shade;Eastward the level valley-plains expand,Sweet as a queen's survey of her own Fairyland.

For through that frame the ivied arches make,Wide tracts of sunny midland charm the eye,Frequent with hamlet grove, and lucent lakeWhere the blue hills' inverted contours lie;Far to the east where billowy mountains breakIn surf of snow against a sapphire sky,Huge thunderheads loom up behind the ranges,Changing from gold to pink as deepening sunset changes;

And over plain and far sierra spreadThe fulgent rays of fading afternoon,Showing each utmost peak and watershedAll clarified, each tassel and festoonOf floating cloud embroidered overhead,Like lotus-leaves on bluest waters strewn,Flushing with rose, while all breathes fresh and freeIn peace and amplitude and bland tranquillity.

Dear were such evenings to this gentle pair;Love's tide that launched on with a blast too strongSweeps toward the foaming reef, the hidden snare,Baffling with fond illusion's siren-song,Too faint, on idle shoals, to linger thereFar from Youth's glowing dream, bore them along,With purple sail and steered by seraph handsTo isles resplendent in the sunset of romance.

And out of this old house a flowery fane,A bridal bower, a pearly pleasure-dome,They built, and furnished it with gold and grain,And bade all spirits of beauty hither come,And wingéd Love to enter with his trainAnd bless their pillow, and in this his homeMake them his priests as Hero was of yoreIn her sweet girlhood by the blue Dardanian shore.

Tree-ferns, therefore, and potted palms they brought,Tripods and urns in rare and curious taste,Polychrome chests and cabinets inwroughtWith pearl and ivory etched and interlaced;Pendant brocades with massive braid were caught,And chain-slung, oriental lamps so placedTo light the lounger on some low divan,Sunken in swelling down and silks from Hindustan.

And there was spread, upon the ample floors,Work of the Levantine's laborious loom,Such as by Euxine or Ionian shoresCarpets the dim seraglio's scented gloom.Each morn renewed, the garden's flowery storesBlushed in fair vases, ochre and peach-bloom,And little birds through wicker doors left wideFlew in to trill a space from the green world outside.

And there was many a dainty attitude,Bronze and eburnean. All but disarrayed,Here in eternal doubt sweet Psyche stoodFain of the bath's delight, yet still afraidLest aught in that palatial solitudeLurked of most menace to a helpless maid.Therefore forever faltering she stands,Nor yet the last loose fold slips rippling from her hands.

Close by upon a beryl column, cladIn the fresh flower of adolescent grace,They set the dear Bithynian shepherd lad,The nude Antinous. That gentle face,Forever beautiful, forever sad,Shows but one aspect, moon-like, to our gaze,Yet Fancy pictures how those lips could smileAt revelries in Rome, and banquets on the Nile.

And there were shapes of Beauty myriads more,Clustering their rosy bridal bed around,Whose scented breadth a silken fabric woreBroidered with peacock hues on creamiest ground,Fit to have graced the barge that Cydnus boreOr Venus' bed in her enchanted mound,While pillows swelled in stuffs of Orient dyes,All broidered with strange fruits and birds of Paradise.

'Twas such a bower as Youth has visions of,Thither with one fair spirit to retire,Lie upon rose-leaves, sleep and wake with LoveAnd feast on kisses to the heart's desire;Where by a casement opening on a grove,Wide to the wood-winds and the sweet birds' choir,A girl might stand and gaze into green boughs,Like Credhe at the window of her golden house.

Or most like Vivien, the enchanting fay,Where with her friend, in the strange tower they planned,She lies and dreams eternity away,Above the treetops in Broceliande,Sometimes at twilight when the woods are grayAnd wolf-packs howl far out across the lande,Waking to love, while up behind the treesThe large midsummer moon lifts-even so loved these.

For here, their pleasure was to come and sitOft when the sun sloped midway to the west,Watching with sweet enjoyment interknitThe long light slant across the green earth's breast,And clouds upon the ranges opposite,Rolled up into a gleaming thundercrest,Topple and break and fall in purple rain,And mist of summer showers trail out across the plain.

Whereon the shafts of ardent light, far-flungAcross the luminous azure overhead,Ofttimes in arcs of transient beauty hungThe fragmentary rainbow's green and red.Joy it was here to love and to be young,To watch the sun sink to his western bed,And streaming back out of their flaming coreThe vesperal aurora's glorious banners soar.

Tinging each altitude of heaven in turn,Those fiery rays would sweep. The cumuliThat peeped above the mountain-tops would burnCarmine a space; the cirrus-whorls on high,More delicate than sprays of maiden fern,Streak with pale rose the peacock-breasted sky,Then blanch. As water-lilies fold at night,Sank back into themselves those plumes of fervid light.

And they would watch the first faint stars appear,The blue East blend with the blue hills below,As lovers when their shuddering bliss draws nearInto one pulse of fluid rapture grow.New fragrance on the freshening atmosphereWould steal with evening, and the sunset glowDraw deeper down into the wondrous westRound vales of Proserpine and islands of the blest.

So dusk would come and mingle lake and shore,The snow-peaks fade to frosty, opaline,To pearl the doméd clouds the mountains bore,Where late the sun's effulgent fire had beenShowing as darkness deepened more and moreThe incandescent lightnings flare within,And Night that furls the lily in the glenAnd twines impatient arms would fall, and then---and then . . .

Sometimes the peasant, coming late from townWith empty panniers on his little drovePast the old lookout when the Northern CrownGlittered with Cygnus through the scented grove,Would hear soft noise of lute-strings wafted downAnd voices singing through the leaves aboveThose songs that well from the warm heart that woosAt balconies in Merida or Vera Cruz.

And he would pause under the garden wall,Caught in the spell of that voluptuous strain,With all the sultry South in it, and allIts importunity of love and pain;And he would wait till the last passionate fallDied on the night, and all was still again.Then to his upland village wander home,Marvelling whence that flood of elfin song might come.

O lyre that Love's white holy hands caress,Youth, from thy bosom welled their passionate laysSweet opportunity for happinessSo brief, so passing beautiful---O days,When to the heart's divine indulgencesAll earth in smiling ministration paysThine was the source whose plenitude, past over,What prize shall rest to pluck, what secret to discover!

The wake of color that follows her when MayWalks on the hills loose-haired and daisy-crowned,The deep horizons of a summer's day,Fair cities, and the pleasures that aboundWhere music calls, and crowds in bright arrayGather by night to find and to be found;What were these worth or all delightful thingsWithout thine eyes to read their true interpretings!

For thee the mountains open glorious gates,To thee white arms put out from orient skies,Earth, like a jewelled bride for one she waits,Decks but to be delicious in thine eyes,Thou guest of honor for one day, whose fêtesEternity has travailed to devise;Ah, grace them well in the brief hour they last!Another's turn prepares, another follows fast.

Yet not without one fond memorialLet my sun set who found the world so fair!Frail verse, when Time the singer's coronalHas rent, and stripped the rose-leaves from his hair,Be thou my tablet on the temple wall!Among the pious testimonials there,Witness how sweetly on my heart as wellThe miracles of dawn and starry evening fell!

Speak of one then who had the lust to feel,And, from the hues that far horizons take,And cloud and sunset, drank the wild appeal,Too deep to live for aught but life's sweet sake,Whose only motive was the will to kneelWhere Beauty's purest benediction spake,Who only coveted what grove and fieldAnd sunshine and green Earth and tender arms could yield---

A nympholept, through pleasant days and drearSeeking his faultless adolescent dream,A pilgrim down the paths that disappearIn mist and rainbows on the world's extreme,A helpless voyager who all too nearThe mouth of Life's fair flower-bordered stream,Clutched at Love's single respite in his needMore than the drowning swimmer clutches at a reed---

That coming one whose feet in other daysShall bleed like mine for ever having, moreThan any purpose, felt the need to praiseAnd seek the angelic image to adore,In love with Love, its wonderful, sweet waysCounting what most makes life worth living for,That so some relic may be his to seeHow I loved these things too and they were dear to me.

I sometimes think a conscious happinessMantles through all the rose's sentient vineWhen summer winds with myriad calycesOf bloom its clambering height incarnadine;I sometimes think that cleaving lips, no less,And limbs that crowned desires at length entwineAre nerves through which that being drinks delight,Whose frame is the green Earth robed round with day and night.

And such were theirs: the traveller without,Pausing at night under the orchard trees,Wondered and crossed himself in holy doubt,For through their song and in the murmuring breezeIt seemed angelic choirs were all aboutMingling in universal harmonies,As though, responsive to the chords they woke,All Nature into sweet epithalamium broke.

And still they think a spirit haunts the place:'Tis said, when Night has drawn her jewelled pallAnd through the branches twinkling fireflies traceTheir mimic constellations, if it fallThat one should see the moon rise through the laceOf blossomy boughs above the garden wall,That surely would he take great ill thereofAnd famish in a fit of unexpressive love.

But this I know not, for what time the wainWas loosened and the lily's petal furled,Then I would rise, climb the old wall again,And pausing look forth on the sundown world,Scan the wide reaches of the wondrous plain,The hamlet sites where settling smoke lay curled,The poplar-bordered roads, and far awayFair snowpeaks colored with the sun's last ray.

Waves of faint sound would pulsate from afarFaint song and preludes of the summer night;Deep in the cloudless west the evening starHung 'twixt the orange and the emerald light;From the dark vale where shades crepuscularDimmed the old grove-girt belfry glimmering white,Throbbing, as gentlest breezes rose or fell,Came the sweet invocation of the evening bell.