Grace Hazard Conkling

With flame of the pomegranate tree?

The god of gardens must have made

This still unrumored place for thee

To rest from immortality,

And dream within the splendid shade

Some more elusive symphony

Than orchestra has ever played.

I.In A major
Poco sostenuto

The laving tide of inarticulate air

Breaks here in flowers as the sea in foam,

But with no satin lisp of failing wave:

The odor-laden winds are very still.

An unimagined music here exhales

In upcurled petal, dreamy bud half-furled,

And variations of thin vivid leaf:

Symphonic beauty that some god forgot.

If form could waken into lyric sound,

This flock of irises like poising birds

Would feel song at their slender feathered throats,

And pour into a grey-winged aria

Their wrinkled silver fingermarked with pearl;

That flight of ivory roses high along

The airy azure of the larkspur spires

Would be a fugue to puzzle nightingales

With tool-evasive rapture, phrase on phrase.

Where the hibiscus flares would cymbals clash,

And the black cypress like a deep bassoon

Would hum a clouded amber melody.

But all across the trudging ragged chords

That are the tangled grasses in the heat,

The mariposa lilies fluttering

Like trills upon some archangelic flute.

The roses and carnations and divine

Small violets that voice the vanished god,

There is a lure of passion-poignant tone

Not flower-of-pomegranate—that finds the heart

As stubborn oboes do—can breathe in air,

Nor poppies, nor keen lime, nor orange-bloom.

What zone of wonder in the ardent dusk

Of trees that yearn and cannot understand,

Vibrates as to the golden shepherd horn

That stirs some great adagio with its cry

And will not let it rest?
O tender trees,

Your orchid, like a shepherdess of dreams,

Calls home her whitest dream from following

Elusive laughter of the unmindful god!

Vivace

The iris people dance

Like any nimble faun:

To rhythmic radiance

They foot it in the dawn.

They dance and have no need

Of crystal-dripping flute

Or chuckling river-reed,—

Their music hovers mute.

The dawn-lights flutter by

All noiseless, but they know!

Such children of the sky

Can hear the darkness go.

But does the morning play

Whatever they demand—

Or amber-barred bourrée

Or silver saraband?

Thou coiled sweet water where they come to tell

Their mellow legends and rehearse their loves,

As what in April or in June befell

And thou must hear of,—friend of Dryades

Who lean to see where flower should be set

To star the dusk of wreathed ivy braids,

They have not left thy trees,

Nor do tired fauns thy crystal kiss forget,

Nor forest-nymphs astray from distant glades.

Thou feelest with delight their showery feet

Along thy mossy margin myrtle-starred,

And thine the heart of wildness quick to beat

At imprint of shy hoof upon thy sward:

Yet who could know thee wild who art so cool,

So heavenly-minded, templed in thy grove

Of plumy cedar, larch and juniper?

O strange ecstatic Pool,

What unknown country art thou dreaming of,

Or temple than this garden lovelier?

Who made thy sky the silver side of leaves,

And poised its orchid like a swan-white moon

Whose disc of perfect pallor half deceives

The mirror of thy limpid green lagoon,

He loveth well thy ripple-feathered moods,

Thy whims at dusk, thy rainbow look at dawn!

Dream thou no more of vales Olympian:

Where pale Olympus broods

There were no orchid white as moon or swan,

No sky of leaves, no garden-haunting Pan!

With whirr and shower of wings:

Some inward melodist

Interpreting all things

Appoints the place, the hours.

Dazzle and sense of flowers,

Though not the least leaf stir,

May mean a tanager:

How rich the silence is until he sings!

The smoke-tree’s cloudy white

Has fire within its breast.

What winged mere delight

There hides as in a nest

And fashions of its flame

Music without a name?

So might an opal sing

If given thrilling wing,

And voice for lyric wildness unexpressed.

In grassy dimness thatched

With tangled growing things,

A troubadour rose-patched,

With velvet-shadowed wings,

Seeks a sustaining fly.

Who else unseen goes by

Quick-pattering through the hush?

Some twilight-footed thrush

Or finch intent on small adventurings?

I have no time for gloom,

For gloom what time have I?

The orange is in bloom;

Emerald parrots fly

Out of the cypress-dusk;

Morning is strange with musk.

The wild canary now

Jewels the lemon-bough,

And mocking-birds laugh in the rose’s room.

For all her royal speechlessness,

Out of a heart of ecstasy

Is singing, singing, none the less!

Light as a springing fountain, she

Is spray above the wind-sleek turf:

Dream-daughter of the moon’s white sea

And sister to its showered surf!

Searching out the gardens there,

Could you find a fairer one

Than this garden, anywhere?

Did Damascus at her best

Hide such beauty in her breast?

When you flood with creamy light

Vines that net the sombre pine,

Turn the shadowed iris white,

Summon cactus stars to shine,

Do you free in silvered air

Wistful spirits everywhere?

Here they linger, there they pass,

And forget their native heaven:

Flit along the dewy grass

Rare Vittoria, Sappho, even!

And the hushed magnolia burns

Incense in her gleaming urns.

When the nightingale demands

Word with Keats who answers him,

Shakespeare listens—understands—

Mindful of the cherubim;

And the South Wind dreads to know

Mozart gone as seraphs go.

Moon of poets dead and gone,

Moon to gods of music dear,

Gardens they have looked upon

Let them re-discover here:

Rest—and dream a little space

Of some heart-remembered place!