From The Sleeping Beauty
When we come to that dark house,
Never sound of wave shall rouse
The bird that sings within the blood
Of those who sleep in that deep wood:
For in that house the shadows now
Seem cast by some dark unknown bough.
The gardener plays his old bagpipe
To make the melons' gold seeds ripe;
The music swoons with a sad sound-
"Keep, my lad, to the good safe ground!
For once, long since, there was a felon
With guineas gold as the seeds of a melon,
And he would sail for a far strand
To seek a waking, clearer land--
A land whose name is only heard
In the strange singing of a bird.
The sea was sharper than green grass,
The sailors would not let him pass,
For the sea was wroth and rose at him
Like the turreted walls of Jerusalem,
Or like the towers and gables seen
Within a deep-boughed garden green.
And the sailors bound and threw him down
Among those wrathful towers to drown.
And oh, far best," the gardener said,
"Like fruits to lie in your kind bed-
To sleep as snug as in the grave
In your kind bed, and shun the wave,
Nor ever sigh for a strange land
And songs no heart can understand."Hornpipe
To the drum
Out of Babylon;
Questia, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning. www.questia.com
Publication information: Book title: Modern Verse in English, 1900-1950. Contributors: David Cecil - Editor, Allen Tate - Editor. Publisher: Macmillan. Place of publication: New York. Publication year: 1958. Page number: 291.
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