The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE1 Here, where all trouble seems I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Here life has death for neighbour, Weak ships and spirits steer; 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, Green grapes of Proserpine,2 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, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born; And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, 8 16 24 32 1 the wife of Pluto, god of the infernal regions; she was the daughter of Ceres, goddess of harvests 2 Proserpine, as queen of Hades Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; She waits for each and other, The life of fruits and corn; There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all disastrous things; Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, 56 64 72 With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, Though all things feast in the spring's guestchamber, How hast thou heart to be glad thereof For where thou fliest I shall not follow, 1 cf. note on Sidney's The Nightingale 30 |