Fte Galante; The Triumph Of Love

Aristono, the fading shepherdess,     Gathers the young girls round her in a ring,     Teaching them wisdom of love,     What to say, how to dress,     How frown, how smile,     How suitors to their dancing feet to bring,     How in mere walking to beguile,     What words cunningly said in what a way     Will draw man's busy fancy astray,     All the alphabet, grammar and syntax of love.     The garden smells are sweet,     Daisies spring in the turf under the high-heeled feet,     Dense, dark banks of laurel grow     Behind the wavering row     Of golden, flaxen, black, brown, auburn heads,     Behind the light and shimmering dresses     Of these unreal, modern shepherdesses;     And gaudy flowers in formal patterned beds     Vary the dim long vistas of the park,     Far as the eye can see,     Till at the forest's edge the ground grows dark     And the flowers vanish in the obscurity.     The young girls gather round her,     Remembering eagerly how their fathers found her     Fresh as a spring-like wind in February,     Subtler in her moving heart than sun-motes that vary     At every waft of an opening and shutting door;     They gather chattering near,     Hush, break out in laughter, whisper aside,     Grow silent more and more,     Though she will never chide.     Now through the silence sounds her voice still clear,     And all give ear.     Like a silver thread through the golden afternoon,     Equably the voice discloses     All that age-old wisdom; like an endless tune     Aristono's voice wavers among the roses,     Level and unimpassioned,     Telling them how of nothing love is fashioned,     How it is but a movement of the mind,     Bidding Celia mark     That light skirts fluttering in the wind,     Or white flowers stuck in dark     Glistening hair, have fired the dull beholder,     Or telling Anais     That faint indifference ere now hath bred a kiss     Denied to flaunted snowy breast or shoulder.     The girls attend,     Each thinking on her friend,     Whether he be real or imaginary,     Whether he be loving or cold;     For each ere she grows old     Means to pursue her joy, and the whole unwary     Troop of their wishes has this wild quarry in cry,     That draws them ineluctably,     More and more as the summer slippeth by.     And Celia leans aside     To contemplate her black-silked ankle on the grass;     In remote dreaming pride,     Rosalind recalls the image in her glass;     Phillis through all her body feels     How divine energy steals,     Quiescent power and resting speed,     Stretches her arms out, feels the warm blood run     Ready for pursuit, for strife and deed,     And turns her glowing face up to the sun.     Phillida smiles,     And lazily trusts her lazy wit,     A slow arrow that hath often hit;     Chloe, bemused by many subtle wiles,     Grows not more dangerous for all of it,     But opens her red lips, yawning drowsily,     And shows her small white teeth,     Dimpling the round chin beneath,     And stretches, moving her young body deliciously.     And still the lesson goes on,     For this is an old story that is never done;     And now the precept is of ribbon and shoe,     What with linens and silks love finds to do,     And how man's heart is tangled in a string     Or taken in gauze like a weak and helpless thing.     Chloe falls asleep; and the long summer day     Drifts slowly past the girls and the warm roses,     Giving in dreams its hours away.     Now Stella throws her head back, and Phillis disposes     Her strong brown hands quietly in her lap,     And Rose's slender feet grow restless and tap     The turf to an imaginary tune.     Now all this grace of youthful bodies and faces     Is wrought to a glow by the golden weather of June;     Now, Love, completing grace of all the graces,     Strong in these hearts thy pure streams rise,     Transmuting what they learn by heavenly alchemies.     Swift from the listeners the spell vanishes,     And through the tinkling, empty words,     True thoughts of true love press,     Flying and wheeling nearer;     As through a sunny sky a flock of birds     Against the throbbing blue grows clearer and clearer,     So closer come these thoughts and dearer.     Helen rises with a laugh;     Chloe wakes;     All the enchantment scatters off like chaff;     The cord is loosened and the spell breaks.     Rosalind     Resolves that to-night she will be kind to her lover,     Unreflecting, warm and kind.     Celia tells the lessons over,     Counting on her fingers - one and two ...     Ribbon and shoe,     Skirts, flowers, song, dancing, laughter, eyes ...     Through the whole catalogue of formal gallantry     And studious coquetries,     Counting to herself maliciously.     But the old, the fading shepherdess, Aristono,     Rises stiffly and walks alone     Down the broad path where densely the laurels grow,     And over a little lawn, not closely mown,     Where wave the flowering grass and the rich meadowsweet.     She seems to walk painfully now and slow,     And drags a little on her high-heeled feet.     She stops at last below     An old and twisted plum-tree, whose last petal is gone,     Leans on the comfortable, rugged bole,     And stares through the green leaves at the drooping sun.     The tree and the warm light comfort her ageing soul.     On the other lawn behind her, out of sight,     The girls at play     Drive out melancholy by lively delight,     And the wind carries their songs and laughter away.     Some begin dancing and seriously tread     A modern measure up and down the grass,     Turn, slide with bending knees, and pass     With dipping hand and poising head,     Float through the sun in pairs, like newly shed     And golden leaves astray     Upon the warm wind of an autumn day,     When the Indian summer rules the air.     Others, having found,     Lying idly on the sun-hot ground,     Shuttlecocks and battledores,     Play with the buoyant feathers and stare     Dazzled at the plaything as it soars,     Vague against the shining sky,     Where light yet throbs and confuses the eye,     Then see it again, white and clear,     As slowly, poisdly it falls by     The dark green foliage and floats near.     But Celia, apart, is pensive and must sigh,     And Anais but faintly pursues the game.     An encroaching, inner flame     Burns in their hearts with the acrid smoke of unrest;     But gaiety runs like quicksilver in Rose's breast,     And Phillis, rising,     Walks by herself with high and springy tread,     All her young blood racing from heels to head,     Breeding new desires and a new surprising     Strength and determination,     Whereof are bred     Confidence and joy and exultation.     The long day closes;     Rosalind's hour draws near, and Chloe's and Rose's,     The hour that Celia has prayed,     The hour for which Anais and Stella have stayed,     When Helen shall forget her wit,     And Phillida by a sure arrow at length be hit,     And Phillis, the fleet runner, be at length overtaken;     When this bough of young blossoms     By the rough, eager gatherers shall be shaken.     Their eyes grow dim,     Their hearts flutter like taken birds in their bosoms,     As the light dies out of heaven,     And a faint, delicious tremor runs through every limb,     And faster the volatile blood through their veins is driven.     The long day closes;     The last light fades in the amber sky;     Warm through the warm dusk glow the roses,     And a heavier shade drops slowly from the trees,     While through the garden as all colours die     The scents come livelier on the quickening breeze.     The world grows larger, vaguer, dimmer,     Over the dark laurels a few faint stars glimmer;     The moon, that was a pallid ghost,     Hung low on the horizon, faint and lost,     Comes up, a full and splendid golden round     By black and sharp-cut foliage overcrossed.     The girls laugh and whisper now with hardly a sound     Till all sound vanishes, dispersed in the night,     Like a wisp of cloud that fades in the moon's light,     And the garden grows silent and the shadows grow     Deeper and blacker below     The mysteriously moving and murmuring trees,     That stand out darkly against the star-luminous sky;     Huge stand the trees,     Shadowy, whispering immensities,     That rain down quietude and darkness on heart and eye.     None move, none speak, none sigh     But from the laurels comes a leaping voice     Crying in tones that seem not man's nor boy's,     But only joy's,     And hard behind a loud tumultuous crying,     A tangled skein of noise,     And the girls see their lovers come, each vying     Against the next in glad and confident poise,     Or softly moving     To the side of the chosen with gentle words and loving     Gifts for her pleasure of sweetmeats and jewelled toys.     Dear Love, whose strength no pedantry can stir,     Whether in thine iron enemies,     Or in thine own strayed follower     Bemused with subtleties and sophistries,     Now dost thou rule the garden, now     The gatherers' hands have grasped the scented bough.     Slow the sweet hours resolve, and one by one are sped.     The garden lieth empty. Overhead     A nightjar rustles by, wing touching wing,     And passes, uttering     His hoarse and whirring note.     The daylight birds long since are fled,     Nor has the moon yet touched the brown bird's throat.     All's quiet, all is silent, all around     The day's heat rises gently from the ground,     And still the broad moon travels up the sky,     Now glancing through the trees and now so high     That all the garden through her rays are shed,     And from the laurels one can just descry     Where in the distance looms enormously     The old house, with all its windows black and dead.