A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Sextine (Ferdinand de Gramont)
SEXTINE.
Soon after the hour when the night's sombre cheek blushes,
In the season of nests, in the advent of flowers,
I entered a thicket of ferns graceful, and rushes,
Not for the shadow, but the strange colour that flushes
And trembles on leaves without number, for hours,
While the Sun with Aurora disputes the dew-showers.
My blood in the transit tinged with red the green bowers,
For the tufts of the holly, and the stiff blades of the rushes,
And the thorns, and the brambles, rising upwards like towers,
Had laced a sharp barrier round the home of the flowers.
In the glade, when I came, oh, how deep were the blushes!
Flowers—flowers, quite a sea,—and a twilight that hushes!
A network harmonious, where, like music, light gushes
And mixes with shade o'er the dew's witching showers,
Diamond, white pearl, and the opal that flushes
In snow and in gold, and the ruby's deep blushes,
All shimmered, and then filt'ring from the cups of the flowers
Went to streak the green leaves with the rainbow's rich dowers,—
It was then that a Fairy stood forth by the bowers.
She seemed to emerge from an oak 'mid the rushes
That guarded the north of the kingdom of flowers.
Fixed, fixed were mine eyes, yet virgin of showers,
As she said—'So thou fliest? The world grinds and it crushes,
And here, 'mid my workmen, is peace in the bushes.
'My treasures contemplate, as thou sitt'st by these rushes,
With art and at leisure, choose, choose the bright flowers;
Weave thy gay garland, and if the wind fiercely brushes
And, flinging clouds o'er the sun, destroys their dew-blushes,
From thy soul them besprinkle with flame and with showers,
And rays everlasting shall dart through the bowers.'
I tied ye up then, oh beloved and chaste flowers!
Nor any have added, lest should fade your rich flushes;
But my Love would not have them, 'twas a waste of my powers:
My blood and my tears through the long-rolling hours
Are the gifts she desires, and so back, 'mid the rushes,
I brought to the Fairy her flowers with their blushes.
Great was my sorrow, but a sorrow girdled with flowers
Is greater. Lethe, oblivion, in darkness still gushes,
But in daylight's rich hues, burst forth the tear—showers.