English poem
I
by Louise Imogen Guiney (1861–1920)
Sunset. A high rocky pasture above Alexandria. In the year of Our Lord 304.
Didymus, a young soldier, enters and throws himself down.
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Didymus.
THIS mound is sweet to me. All my blood aches, Since driven onward like a dark hill-cloud, Dizzy with secret lightnings nowhere spent, I chase yon happy sun to his bright death, Alas, I know not whither: but I know I shall not see the myriad shields uphung In camp to-night, nor on our cypresses Smoke rise and sink in loath blue fountain spray. So far, so far I drift from even them Who fill one gourd with me, who cheer my heart, Who come in, warm and singing, to the tent, And miss me who am gone away, I think, Forever, though a day; out of their world, Though over a few leagues of upland grass! Why hast Thou laid on me magic of pain, God unrevealèd? Was I drawn from sleep, Man’s duty, body’s health, to be mere wind, Wind undirected over fallow wastes? What wouldst Thou ask of me, no sword of Thine, No ark of service? Yet aware of Thee I am and shall be. All my thought, outspread, Is open unto Thee: a lonely beach Where the wide sobbing surf ebbs everywhere, And, hard upon each dawn-encolored wave, Flutters the wavy line of drying sand Back to the verge: the white line, shadow-quick, Thrilling there in the dark: an earthen gleam, Vain huntress of the sea. Suffer me now To follow and attain Thee, fugitive, And be my rest, who hast, my whole life long, Been mine unrest: implored, immortal Love!
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A Child enters, with a reed, wearing a wreath of thorns in his hair.
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The Child. Soldier, pipe up for me, a herd-boy, glad Because his flocks are folded.
Didymus. Ah, not I! My star is withered; I am man no more. Sigh after sigh the builder Grief takes up, To heighten over me her gradual arch.
The Child. An arch of entrance to a generous garden, Where spirits and the moonlit waters are. Take comfort!
Didymus. Thou art a strange child, methinks, To say that too wise word.
The Child. Remember, then, ’Twas breathed to thee at Alexandria, In early-dying April’s golden air.
Didymus. Do I lie here, who deemed myself afar? I had forgot; I am foolish, lost, bewildered.
The Child. O mine elect: be patient!... Listen now. There is an evening anthem in my reed; And while the laurels sparkle, and sun-lit, The mother-swallow dips into her cave, And doves move close along their bridal bough, Murmuring sorrow, I will play to thee.
Didymus. I thank thee, boy, for I may fall asleep.
The Child. Rather shalt wake, and from thy doubt be born! Lean so, against my knee.
[The Child plays, a long time.
O Didymus, With thy shut eyes, thy youth undedicate, Tell me the name of this new pastoral.
Didymus (asleep). He said: “My yoke is sweet, My burden light.” O light, O sweet, perchance, as it was said!
The Child. True heart! The hour rounds up; thy wine-press waits; And so this music fades: the silver tones Thin out, and faintly drip delight, and cease, No willing man nor bird hears how. Good-night, O soon-made-perfect!
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