In Provence and Lyrical Epigrams

Edith Wharton

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  • I. Mistral in the Maquis
  • II. The Young Dead
  • Lyrical Epigrams

    • I. Mistral in the Maquis





    Roofed in with creaking pines we lie
    And see the waters burn and whiten,
    The wild seas race the racing sky,
    The tossing landscape gloom and lighten.


    With emerald streak and silver blotch
    The white wind paints the purple sea.
    Warm in our hollow dune we watch
    The honey-orchis nurse the bee.


    Gold to the keel the startled boats
    Beat in on palpitating sail,
    While overhead with many throats
    The choral forest hymns the gale.


    'Neath forest-boughs the templed air
    Hangs hushed as when the Host is lifted,
    While, flanks astrain and rigging bare,
    The last boat to the port has drifted.


    Nought left but the lost wind that grieves
    On darkening seas and furling sails,
    And the long light that Beauty leaves
    Upon her fallen veils. . .

    II. The Young Dead





    Ah, how I pity the young dead who gave
    All that they were, and might become, that we
    With tired eyes should watch this perfect sea
    Re-weave its patterning of silver wave
    Round scented cliffs of arbutus and bay.


    No more shall any rose along the way,
    The myrtled way that wanders to the shore,
    Nor jonquil-twinkling meadow any more,
    Nor the warm lavender that takes the spray,
    Smell only of sea-salt and the sun,


    But, through recurring seasons, every one
    Shall speak to us with lips the darkness closes,
    Shall look at us with eyes that missed the roses,
    Clutch us with hands whose work was just begun,
    Laid idle now beneath the earth we tread —


    And always we shall walk with the young dead. —
    Ah, how I pity the young dead, whose eyes
    Strain through the sod to see these perfect skies,
    Who feel the new wheat springing in their stead,
    And the lark singing for them overhead!


    Lyrical Epigrams




    I


    My little old dog:
    A heart-beat
    At my feet.

    II
    Spring


    A winter wind,
    Primroses,
    And the new furrow.

    III
    Friendship


    The silence of midnight,
    A dying fire,
    And the best unsaid. . . .

    IV


    A pointed steeple
    Above square trees —
    Rustic France.

    V


    A blunt steeple
    Over round trees —
    Rural England.

    VI
    Soluntum


    Across these giant ruins
    The greatest cloud-shadows
    Dart like little lizards.