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I—THE TRUMPET-VINE ARBOR
THE THROATS of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, | |
| And the clangor of brass beats against the hot sunlight. | |
| They bray and blare at the burning sky. | |
| Red! Red! Coarse notes of red, | |
| Trumpeted at the blue sky. | 5 |
| In long streaks of sound, molten metal, | |
| The vine declares itself. | |
| Clang!—from its red and yellow trumpets. | |
| Clang!—from its long, nasal trumpets, | |
| Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise. | 10 |
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| I sit in the cool arbor, in a green and gold twilight. | |
| It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets; | |
| I only know that they are red and open, | |
| And that the sun above the arbor shakes with heat. | |
| My quill is newly mended, | 15 |
| And makes fine-drawn lines with its point. | |
| Down the long white paper it makes little lines, | |
| Just lines,—up—down—criss-cross. | |
| My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill; | |
| It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen. | 20 |
| My hand marches to a squeaky tune, | |
| It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes. | |
| My pen and the trumpet-flowers, | |
| And Washington’s armies away over the smoke-tree to the southwest. | |
| “Yankee Doodle,” my darling! It is you against the British, | 25 |
| Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George. | |
| What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager. | |
| Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for. | |
| Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target! | |
| Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the housetop, | 30 |
| Through father’s spy-glass, | |
| The red city, and the blue, bright water, | |
| And puffs of smoke which you made. | |
| Twenty miles away, | |
| Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck, | 35 |
| But the smoke was white—white! | |
| To-day the trumpet-flowers are red—red— | |
| And I cannot see you fighting; | |
| But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada, | |
| And Myra sings “Yankee Doodle” at her milking. | 40 |
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| The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine, | |
| And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air. | |
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II—THE CITY OF FALLING LEAVES
Leaves fall, | |
| Brown leaves, | |
| Yellow leaves streaked with brown. | 45 |
| They fall, | |
| Flutter, | |
| Fall again. | |
| The brown leaves, | |
| And the streaked yellow leaves, | 50 |
| Loosen on their branches | |
| And drift slowly downwards. | |
| One, | |
| One, two, three, | |
| One, two, five. | 55 |
| All Venice is a falling of autumn leaves, | |
| Brown, | |
| And yellow streaked with brown. | |
| |
| “That sonnet, Abate, | |
| Beautiful, | 60 |
| I am quite exhausted by it. | |
| Your phrases turn about my heart, | |
| And stifle me to swooning. | |
| Open the window, I beg. | |
| Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins! | 65 |
| ’Tis really a shame to stop indoors. | |
| Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself. | |
| Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air! | |
| See how straight the leaves are falling. | |
| Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe, | 70 |
| It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle. | |
| Am I well painted to-day, caro Abate mio? | |
| You will be proud of me at the Ridotto, hey? | |
| Proud of being cavalier servente to such a lady? | |
| “Can you doubt it, bellissima Contessa? | 75 |
| A pinch more rouge on the right cheek, | |
| And Venus herself shines less …” | |
| “You bore me, Abate; | |
| I vow I must change you! | |
| A letter, Achmet? | 80 |
| Run and look out of the window, Abate. | |
| I will read my letter in peace.” | |
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| The little black slave with the yellow satin turban | |
| Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes. | |
| His yellow turban and black skin | 85 |
| Are gorgeous—barbaric. | |
| The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings | |
| Lies on a chair, | |
| Beside a black mantle and a black mask. | |
| Yellow and black, | 90 |
| Gorgeous—barbaric. | |
| The lady reads her letter, | |
| And the leaves drift slowly | |
| Past the long windows. | |
| “How silly you look, my dear Abate, | 95 |
| With that great brown leaf in your wig. | |
| Pluck it off, I beg you, | |
| Or I shall die of laughing.” | |
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| A yellow wall, | |
| Aflare in the sunlight, | 100 |
| Chequered with shadows, | |
| Shadows of vine-leaves, | |
| Shadows of masks. | |
| Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant, | |
| Then passing on, | 105 |
| More masks always replacing them. | |
| Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind, | |
| Pursuing masks with veils and high heels, | |
| The sunlight shining under their insteps. | |
| One, | 110 |
| One, two, | |
| One, two, three— | |
| There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall, | |
| Filigreed at the top with moving leaves. | |
| Yellow sunlight and black shadows, | 115 |
| Yellow and black, | |
| Gorgeous—barbaric. | |
| Two masks stand together, | |
| And the shadow of a leaf falls through them, | |
| Marking the wall where they are not. | 120 |
| From hat-tip to shoulder-tip, | |
| From elbow to sword-hilt, | |
| The leaf falls. | |
| The shadows mingle, | |
| Blur together, | 125 |
| Slide along the wall and disappear. | |
| Gold of mosaics and candles, | |
| And night-blackness lurking in the ceiling beams. | |
| Saint Mark’s glitters with flames and reflections. | |
| A cloak brushes aside, | 130 |
| And the yellow of satin | |
| Licks out over the colored inlays of the pavement. | |
| Under the gold crucifixes | |
| There is a meeting of hands | |
| Reaching from black mantles. | 135 |
| Sighing embraces, bold investigations, | |
| Hide in confessionals, | |
| Sheltered by the shuffling of feet. | |
| Gorgeous—barbaric | |
| In its mail of jewels and gold, | 140 |
| Saint Mark’s looks down at the swarm of black masks; | |
| And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall, | |
| Flutter, | |
| Fall. | |
| Brown, | 145 |
| And yellow streaked with brown. | |
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| Blue-black the sky over Venice, | |
| With a pricking of yellow stars. | |
| There is no moon, | |
| And the waves push darkly against the prow | 150 |
| Of the gondola, | |
| Coming from Malamocco | |
| And streaming toward Venice. | |
| It is black under the gondola hood, | |
| But the yellow of a satin dress | 155 |
| Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger. | |
| Yellow compassed about with darkness, | |
| Yellow and black, | |
| Gorgeous—barbaric. | |
| The boatman sings, | 160 |
| It is Tasso that he sings; | |
| The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles, | |
| And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn. | |
| But at Malamocco in front, | |
| In Venice behind, | 165 |
| Fall the leaves, | |
| Brown, | |
| And yellow streaked with brown. | |
| They fall, | |
| Flutter, | 170 |
| Fall. | |
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