Orchard and Vineyard by Victoria Mary Sackville-West

ESCAPECOME, shall we go, my comrade, from this denWhere falsehood reigns and we have dallied long?Exchange the curious vanities of menFor roads of freedom and for ships of song? We came as strangers, came to learn and look,To hear their music, drink the wine they gave.Now let us hence again; the happy brookShall quench our thirst, our music be the wave. Come! they are feasting, let us steal away.Beyond the doors the night awaits us, sweet.To-morrow we shall see the break of day,And goat-herds’ pipes shall lead our roaming feet. TO EVE IN TEARSYOU laughed, and all the fountains of the EastLeapt up to Heaven with their diamond rainTo hang in light, and when your laughter ceasedDropped shivered arrows to the ground again. You laughed, and from the belfries of the earthThe music rippled like a shaken pool;And listless banners at the breeze of mirthWere stirred in harbours suddenly made cool. You wept, and all the music of the air—As when a hand is laid upon a bell—Was stilled, and Dryads of the tossing hairCrept back abashed within the secret dell. MARIANA IN THE NORTHALL her youth is gone, her beautiful youth outworn,Daughter of tarn and tor, the moors that were once her homeNo longer know her step on the upland tracks forlornWhere she was wont to roam. All her hounds are dead, her beautiful hounds are dead,That paced beside the hoofs of her high and nimble horse,Or streaked in lean pursuit of the tawny hare that fledOut of the yellow gorse. All her lovers have passed, her beautiful lovers have passed,The young and eager men that fought for her arrogant hand,And the only voice which endures to mourn for her at the lastIs the voice of the lonely land. SORROW OF DEPARTURE. For D.HE sat among the shadows lost,And heard the careless voice speak onOf life when he was gone from home,Of days that he had made his own,Familiar schemes that he had known,And dates that he had cherished mostAs star-points in the year to come,And he was suddenly alone,Thinking (not bitterly,But with a grave regret) that heWas in that room a ghost. He sat among the shades apart,The careless voice he scarcely heard.In that arrested hour there stirredShy birds of beauty in his heart. The clouds of March he would not seeAcross the sky race royally,Nor yet the drift of daffodilHe planted with so glad a hand,Nor yet the loveliness he plannedFor summer’s sequence to fulfil,Nor trace upon the hillThe annual waking of the land,Nor meditative standTo watch the turning of the mill. He would not pause above the WealdWith twilight falling dim,And mark the chequer-board of field,The water gleaming like a shield,The oast-house in the elms concealed,Nor see, from heaven’s chalice-rim,The vintaged sunset brim,Nor yet the high, suspended starHanging eternally afar. These things would be, but not for him. At summer noon he would not lieOne with his cutter’s rise and dip,Free with the wind and sea and sky,And watch the dappled waves go by,The sea-gulls scream and slip;White sails, white birds, white clouds, white foam,White cliffs that curled the love of homeAround him like a whip....He would not see that summer noonFade into dusk from light,While he on shifting waters brightSailed idly on, beneath the moonClimbing the dome of night. This was his dream of happy thingsThat he had loved through many springs, And never more might know.But man must pass the shrouded gateCompanioned by his secret fate,And he must lonely go,And none can help or understand,For other men may touch his hand,But none the soul below.