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2
The Garden of Proserpine
(
idea
)
by
MrFurious
Tue Jan 16 2001 at 19:08:09
The Garden of
Proserpine
Here, where the
world is quiet
;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy
world of streams
.
I am tired of tears and laughter
,
And men that
laugh
and
weep
,
Of what may came
hereafter
For men that sow to reap
:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and
dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan
waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and
whither
They wot not who make
thither
;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.
No growth of
moor
or
coppice
,
No
heather-flower
or vine
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of
Proserpine
.
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and
slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness, morn.
Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end, it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold
immortal
hands;
Her languid
lips
are sweeter
Than
love
's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the
earth
her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken
,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of
sorrow
,
And
joy
was never sure;
Today will die tomorrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half
regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weep
s that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief
thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no man lives for ever
;
That dead men rise up
never
;
That even the
weariest
river
Winds somewhere
safe to sea
.
Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light;
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight;
Nor
wintry
nor
vernal
,
Nor days, nor things
diurnal
;
Only the sleep eternal
In an
eternal night
.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Ceres and Proserpina
Algernon Charles Swinburne
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