: Ardours and Endurances; Also A Faun's Holiday & Poems and Phantasies by Nichols Robert - World War 1914-1918 Poetry; English poetry 20th century

@FreeBooksWed 07 Jun, 2023

Posted in: #FreeBooks #FreeBooksIndia #FreeBooksApp #gg

Vote Up Vote Down

our feet, And up we start the grass to beat With fervent foot, drink, dance again, And, ever at the loud refrain Clashing our cups, dance on and on, Till the noontide lull is gone."

So join I them, and drink and sup, And fill again the great bowl up; And, drenched thus down, spin lusty tales Of topping bouts 'twixt men and whales; Of the East's Emperor who hath A pool of wine to be his bath; Of Hercules his thirst, and how He did all Ethiopia plough, And plant with vines, his thirst to sate. We will discuss the Ideal State, Whose sky is covered by a vine, Whose hills are cheese, whose rivers wine, Whose trees bear loaves brown, crisp and sweet, Whose citizens do nought but eat, But eat and drink, drink, eat, and snore, And eat again, and wish no more Than so to drink, snore, eat; who find In this true liberty of mind And true equality, in this Fraternity, law, earthly bliss. So swill again and yet again, Till a fire flushes all the brain And, trolling lustily and long, Each hearty throat bursts into song.

Avaunt, brow and visage pious: None but Bacchus boys come nigh us! Raise the bowl and shout his name: Io, Bacchus! for a flame Chafes in our blood, O Bromios! Fire no water e'er could quench, And its heat must scorify us If with wine we do not drench. Wherefore overbrim the cup: This to Jove now drink I up, Who upon thy first of days Sn?tched thee and c?wed thy natal blaze, Even as 'tis now the merry Strength of this thy vintaged berry, That the scorching danger stays.

To the vine now! let its golden Leaves about our brows be folden. To the swarthy hand that trims it! To the grape! the sun that dims it! To the pipe that doth embolden Purpled stamping feet to riot O'er the vatted winepress olden! To the cavern's depth, chill, quiet! Last to wine's own ruddy sprite, Wakes in rheumy eyes a light-- Ay, and ripens youth to man; Wine which more works than wisdom can; Wine that welcomes hardy morrows; Wine that turns to song our sorrows; Wine the only magian!

Deep now! every bowl enhances The world's beauty; see there dances In the sky the leaping sun! 'Nay, can thine eye catch but one?' 'Six now spin.' 'A seventh advances, Flares and vomits, swerves and blazes, Now bursts and countlessly it prances, Pulsing to my frantic paces!' 'I flame,--gyrate!' 'I shoot out heat!' 'My tricked speech trips, and trip my feet!' 'The earth runs round and heav'n is wheeling!' 'I sway; I reel.' 'Earth's wrecked and reeling!' 'Dance on.' 'Earth's gone.' 'All's white and clear!' 'Ah! Ah! Behind the blaze I hear The Oread's laughter pealing!'

Avaunt, grief! Descend, O holy Fierce Bacchic rapture, divine folly!

Thus will I sit and both amuse Until I rise and beg excuse: Off 'to El Raschid in Assyria' Or 'the Grand-Duchess of Illyria,' Or 'to ask the maiden moon Why one only of her shoon She left us last night in the sky, And not her silver self, and why She always climbs the self-same track? Lets no one ever see her back?'

But neither to the moon go I Or to the river gliding by, But to the woods, therein to move Among the quiet glades I love, Desiring nought but aye to see The beech, ash, oak, and chestnut tree.... Till I a nymph meet who persuades Me to the broadest of the glades, Around whose smooth and sunken space The far woods lie. For in this place, Deserted but for a mid-grove Of maiden trees, bower of the dove, Pan plays, and should the sylvans chance, Nymphs, fauns, and sylvans, join in dance.

The high-flung timbrels pulse and knock; We follow in a dancing flock, Touching each other's finger-tips, While from between our parted lips The solemn melodies repeat The rhythm of our shaken feet. Then faster! and the round we trace, Hair flowing from elated face, Eyes lit, breast bare, with lifted knees, And hands that toss as toss the trees.... And slow again ... with cumulate motion, As the long draw and plunge of ocean Bursting in a cloud of spray Up a white, deserted bay Of the sun-circled green Bermooths, Whose blistering sands the cool foam soothes.... Next the bewildering pipes may sing Some simple melody of spring, Whose cadences remember yet Sadly lost springs that we forget. To which as dances April rain On a still pool where leans no stain, Save of the cloud's pure splendour spread Gloriously overhead, Our fast-flickering feet shall twinkle, And our golden anklets tinkle, While fair arms in aery sleeves Shiver as the poplar's leaves.

And all the while shall Pan sit by And play, and pause, perhaps, to sigh, Viewing the scarce-moving skies, The hushed and glittering revelries, The infant moon, the slender trees Silvering to the shivery breeze, The fair, lorn dancers lemon-clad: The world fantastical and sad.

Thus may we dance the light away Of yet one more unmemoried day. But, the dance ended, I will go Beyond the reach of pipes that blow A sadness thrilling through my veins....

Such power Pan's grief hath to oppress, And Memory!--since now I guess Only too well that there must come Twilight, Calamity, and Doom.

Free books android app tbrJar TBR JAR Read Free books online gutenberg

Login to post a comment!