They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies,2 Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number, In hell and heaven unmated, Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch or portal, With cold immortal hands; She waits for each and other, The life of fruits and corn; 15 20 The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither; And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of things forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. 70 1 Proserpine was the child of Demeter, the motherearth. While gathering flowers in the Sicilian fields, she was caught up and carried off by Pluto, king of the Infernal regions, who made her queen of the lower realm. of darkness and death. She was afterwards permitted to leave the Shades for a part of each year and to visit Olympus. She typifies the corn, or grain, which passes from the dark prison in the earth to light, and leaves the light to return again to darkness. In this poem, Swinburne pictures the world as her garden, a place presided over by the Queen of the kingdom of darkness, a spot from which life is continually being carried off to the dark region of oblivion. 2 The poppy, the flower of oblivion, as associated with Proserpine. She is often represented with a garland of poppies on her head. And love, grown faint and fretful, From too much love of living, Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any sound or sight: In an eternal night. 80 85 90 95 PASTICHE1 (From Poems and Ballads, 1878) Blown adrift through beam and breeze. Now the nights are all past over Now the loves with faith for mother, Now the morning faintlier risen Now hath hope, outraced in running A FORSAKEN GARDEN1 5 10 15 20 In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee Walled round with rocks as an inland island, The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 1 Pastiche (or pasticcio) is the French word for a medley, or a work in imitation of the style of several masters. 1 The scene of this poem is said to be East Dene, Bonchurch, in the Isle of Wight. |