Mandragora/What We Say

by John Cowper Powys

WHAT WE SAY

YOU have gathered somewhere to you
   The softness of pastures cool,
And the tender, ineffable blue
   Of the deep leaf-shadowed pool,
Where a lovelier sky than ours
   Sinks down between wavering weeds
And the roots of the floating water-flowers
   Blend with the roots of the reeds,

You have gathered to you somewhere
   The passion of hyacinth-stains,
Where the odorous moss-dark air
   Is moist with a thousand rains;
You have formed your virgin flesh
   Of the suppliance of crescent moons,
And the tender ferns that enmesh
   The shadows of summer noons.

When my days are yours there passes
   With primrose-scented showers,
The thought of cool deep grasses
   And beds of cuckoo-flowers;
When my nights are yours, my dreams
   Are full of the flight of swallows,
Dipping their wings in rushy streams
   And shady river-hollows.

O child, you have made your own
   All lovely and delicate things,
And losing you, I am left alone
   In a place where no bird sings;
In a place where no reeds quiver
   Or tender rain goes by,
Nor clouds nor cooling river
   Soften the arid sky.