Visitation
SUNLIGHT slantingly flows
Down through the rampart notches
Onto thine house by the thicket,
Onto thy garden-close.
SUNLIGHT slantingly flows
Down through the rampart notches
Onto thine house by the thicket,
Onto thy garden-close.
Stefan George - Selections from His Works and Others
Thy holy voice I never more shall hear,
Nor kiss thy feet, nor kiss thy garment hem?
I pray thae for a sign, yet thou art mute. "
Then came that way a stranger: "Brother speak,
Upon thy cheeks there burns so great a woe
That I must bear, if it I cannot quench. "
"In vain is all thy solace . . . . leave this poorling!
I seek my lord who has forgotten me. "
The stranger vanished . . the disciple sank
With anguished cry . . For through the sacred glow
That bathed the spot, he knew that which through
blind
Despair and sickly hope he had not seen
Before: it was the Lord who came and went.
52
?
Visitation
SUNLIGHT slantingly flows
Down through the rampart notches
Onto thine house by the thicket,
Onto thy garden-close.
When the birds swirl on the sward,
When the trees wave their branches,
After sundown the early
Wayfarers wander abroad.
Plenish the pail at the well,
Sprinkle the sand on the pathway,
Bushes and beds of the grass-plot,
Roses and heather-bell.
And on the wall, by the seat,
Break the entangled ivy,
Scatter buds for a carpet,
Let all be balmy and sweet.
Lest as a pilgrim, again,
In such twilight shadows,
HE should alight, peradventure
Onto our earth, and then
Over the way he should glide,
--Parting the leaves with his radiance-
Through the copse to thy threshold,
There awhile to abide.
63
? Dream--Darkness
LANDSCAPE I
THE wild resplendence of the year resolves,
The sombre mood of evening fades away
Within a wood, where from a late array
Of saffron, bronze and crimson--dole dissolves.
And leaf on leaf in languid flakes alight
Upon the surface of a silent pool,
Whereby a boy keeps watch with eyelets cool;
Already cruel spouse to falling night.
And through the solitudes remote and strange
The golden gloss of eve, from tree to tree,
Descends, amid the yellow, flamingly,
Then darksome mists o'er darksome bushes range.
Night-shades assemble, edges white with foam,
Around a wall of blood-red barren thorn,
Pale hands throng forward, groping tired and torn--
If only through the thicket sleep would come! . .
Then "mid the gray there peeps a glimmer soon,
A new light rises 'neath the evening star,
A grass-plot stretches o'er a crag afar.
Along there glides among the violets strewn
A row of slender stems, like lances free.
The azure vault in silver shimmers soft,
A dewy breeze with fragrance soars aloft. .
