Poems (Forrest)/The enchanted garden
THE ENCHANTED GARDEN
"St. David of Wales slept seven years in the enchanted garden of Ormandine. He was rescued by St. George of England."—Brewer.
What did you dream in seven years? Seven years of a magic rose,
Seven years of a haunted thicket, clasping bramble and lily faint,
Seven years of enchanted moss, with the quiver of poplars thrown across?
What did you find in your sealed slumber? Theme for sinner or theme for saint?
Seven years of a haunted thicket, clasping bramble and lily faint,
Seven years of enchanted moss, with the quiver of poplars thrown across?
What did you find in your sealed slumber? Theme for sinner or theme for saint?
Cymiric eyes are as blue as Heaven, long-lashed, full of the need to dream,
For their hearts are tuned to the voiceless mountain, their souls are free of the rushing stream.
When the wizard lured you by wicket-gate—deft-hid gate in a wall unseen—
When the spell of the flowers took you captive, chained in the garden of Ormandine,
Were you glad—a little—to find such dreaming? Life austere, and the rush-floored cell
To be changed for a poppy's drowsy swinging, in and out, like a vesper bell?
For their hearts are tuned to the voiceless mountain, their souls are free of the rushing stream.
When the wizard lured you by wicket-gate—deft-hid gate in a wall unseen—
When the spell of the flowers took you captive, chained in the garden of Ormandine,
Were you glad—a little—to find such dreaming? Life austere, and the rush-floored cell
To be changed for a poppy's drowsy swinging, in and out, like a vesper bell?
Over your head the leaves came rustling, gold of autumn among the boughs;
Over your head the dawn-moths fluttered, dragonflies in their spring carouse,
Dipped to your hair and swept an eyebrow, flicked to your girdle frayed and quaint;
Or the grey mouse nibbled your dusty sandal, undeterred by a sleeping saint.
The pink rose pouted her mouth above you; the lily flung you her pollen gold;
The fruiting hedges had flaunted purple; the ficus crept to you, fold on fold.
Over your head the dawn-moths fluttered, dragonflies in their spring carouse,
Dipped to your hair and swept an eyebrow, flicked to your girdle frayed and quaint;
Or the grey mouse nibbled your dusty sandal, undeterred by a sleeping saint.
The pink rose pouted her mouth above you; the lily flung you her pollen gold;
The fruiting hedges had flaunted purple; the ficus crept to you, fold on fold.
And surely, into your saintly dreaming, there slid the musk of a Vision's mouth;
Carnations carried a cup of perfume, foamed by winds of the amorous South;
The lively bee with his tawny body matched the brown of your gabardine;
Betwixt the curve of your sleeping fingers the grass blades broke in a sheaf of green;
The dews of the night were pearled upon you, dews that the noon sun drank at last;
And the summer rains cooled your ferny pillow; the arms of the twilight held you fast.
Carnations carried a cup of perfume, foamed by winds of the amorous South;
The lively bee with his tawny body matched the brown of your gabardine;
Betwixt the curve of your sleeping fingers the grass blades broke in a sheaf of green;
The dews of the night were pearled upon you, dews that the noon sun drank at last;
And the summer rains cooled your ferny pillow; the arms of the twilight held you fast.
The rosy tendrils of vines swung o'er you, the broad leaves shielded your helpless eyes;
And a bird lit low on a twig to greet you, floating out of the ghostly skies.
St. George came galloping there to save you, did shatter garden and scatter wall?
Did the lily die of a mailed knight's treading? The poplar gold to his broadsword fall?
Did the moss crouch down to the silver water, that through the dream, in a sleep-song flows?
Did the poppy crumble to pallid petals—the spear-point carry a wounded rose?
And a bird lit low on a twig to greet you, floating out of the ghostly skies.
St. George came galloping there to save you, did shatter garden and scatter wall?
Did the lily die of a mailed knight's treading? The poplar gold to his broadsword fall?
Did the moss crouch down to the silver water, that through the dream, in a sleep-song flows?
Did the poppy crumble to pallid petals—the spear-point carry a wounded rose?
······
The hush has gone from the magic garden. Time that was naught resumed its reign;
And the dream, like a ragged web out-drifted, you could not mend with your prayers again.
The grey mouse hid in an earth crack, shaking; the dragonfly was a shrivelled thing;
But the grass outlined where a saint lay sleeping, seven years by the wizard's spring.
And the dream, like a ragged web out-drifted, you could not mend with your prayers again.
The grey mouse hid in an earth crack, shaking; the dragonfly was a shrivelled thing;
But the grass outlined where a saint lay sleeping, seven years by the wizard's spring.
Clatter of hoofs! St. George is riding! Conquering knight, he has crossed the stream,
To rescue you from the walled garden, the long, long sleep and the long, long dream.
Back to patter of prayer, to fasting; back again to the cell and vow;
And the spell is broken among the flowers, where only the memories linger now!
To rescue you from the walled garden, the long, long sleep and the long, long dream.
Back to patter of prayer, to fasting; back again to the cell and vow;
And the spell is broken among the flowers, where only the memories linger now!
What did you dream in seven years? Seven years of a magic rose,
Seven years of the haunted thicket, locking bramble and lily faint,
Seven years of enchanted moss, with a quiver of branches flung across?
What did you find in your sealed slumber? Dream for sinner or dream for saint?
Seven years of the haunted thicket, locking bramble and lily faint,
Seven years of enchanted moss, with a quiver of branches flung across?
What did you find in your sealed slumber? Dream for sinner or dream for saint?