Poet in the Desert, The - Part 43
To inventory the abundance of Nature to the poor
Is to sparkle water before the eyes of those
Dying of thirst in the desert.
The kindly fields are bountiful;
Wheat-fields, golden, and oat-fields, silvern;
Fields of barley, a phalanx of bearded warriors
Moving forward.
Tall rye which billows as the sea;
Billows of plenty.
Fields of maize, rustling ribbons; waving banners;
An army of plumed captains, proud in their commission
That the children of men shall be fed.
Generous grain-fields of every sort,
Stately women, flushed of the sun.
Their hair blown by the wind,
Swaying, undulant, bearing golden vessels,
Full and overflowing.
Does a mother bear a child
And have no milk in her breasts?
Consider, also, the rewarding orchards,
Brides cloudily veiled in white and pink;
Serene in the prophecy of their pregnancy;
Vessels of incense carried before them.
Beautiful bevies of plums, pears,
Apples, cherries and apricots;
Ranks of nectarines, oranges, lemons, figs;
Luscious peaches, with sun-burned cheeks,
Blushing maidens who look modestly down.
The peach-orchards perfume the September breeze
And peach leaves are aromatic in the hand.
Nut-trees,
Walnuts and wide-spreading chestnuts,
Casting heavy shade in mid-summer.
Almonds, cousins to peach-trees,
Both from Persia, the country of Omar, Sadi,
Hafiz, and Firdausi.
Green almonds, white and sweet as milk.
Almond-leaves withering with a sweet spice;
Tall pecans in rich river-bottoms.
Hickory-trees with shining, pungent leaves,
Plates of gold in October.
Vineyards, arbored and festooned,
Where the wild doves crouch upon the ground
In the shade of the vines
And daintily stepping deer come by moonlight;
Ruby, amber and purple bunches,
Sweet and nectared, filling the air
With delicate musk.
Vineyards in serried ranks on steep hillsides,
Sloping toward the South;
The grotesque, gnarled and twisted vines,
Crooked gnomes,
Bringing wine from Earth's cool cavern
To bless the festivals of friendship.
Does a mother bear children
And refuse to suckle them?
Or, having children, does she fail
To fold them to her bosom?
Not only the fields laugh to us,
As fat men sitting in the sun,
But the gardens are jovial as matrons bearing baskets.
Red beets, with purple leaves, blood-veined;
Golden carrots, with green plumes;
Lettuces which caught pink Aphrodite when she fell;
Burly cabbages, blue-green, silvered with a frost
Winter has forgotten.
Groping beans, which quickly clamber to the top;
Those ropes by which the very valiant Jack
Climbed from earth to clouds,
As so would I.
Peas blossoming as a flock of white butterflies,
And young peas, sugary in the pod.
Tomato-vines, hung with scarlet fruit,
Pink-stemmed pie-plant, voluptuous-leaved;
And all those countless gifts born
In the dark, mysterious earth:
Potatoes, turnips, onions and the parsnip
Which once was the deadly hemlock
That slew Socrates.
No, not hemlock slew him,
But the men he would have saved.
Now it has become wholesome;
The poison of yesterday, the food of tomorrow.
Artichokes, triumphant silvery thistles,
Called from the wayside and made royal.
Stout, up-pushing asparagus,
Challenging March with spears,
And wooing August with feathery fronds.
The purple egg-plant from Arabia,
And luscious melons from the Persians;
Melons of Nusrabad and Casaba.
Water-melons, chrysoprase casks of nectar.
Marvelous to be filled through so small a pipe.
Broad-leaved squashes,
Summoning Summer through golden trumpets,
And feeling the world with suspicious fingers.
Pumpkins, giant apples of Hesperides,
Big with promise.
Consider, too, the lowly grasses
Which feed the flocks upon the hills,
Pouring loaves exhaustlessly from the valleys;
And those cunning chemists, all the clover-tribe,
Lading the air of June with invitation
And distilling nectar for the bees,
And from the air recovering to unwearied Earth
Her nitrogen.
So is the cycle of fertility complete.
Is there any flaw in Nature,
Or any wart upon her excellence?
I know not at what time,
For Nature regards only the clock of the heavens
And keeps no calendar;
But I know she will not construct this beauty,
This plenty and endure Man's ugliness.
She will not scatter out of her treasure-house,
Abundance and endure that Man
Shall plunder his brother;
Shall her child destroy her storehouse
And leave her palace of ecstasy deserted?
Is to sparkle water before the eyes of those
Dying of thirst in the desert.
The kindly fields are bountiful;
Wheat-fields, golden, and oat-fields, silvern;
Fields of barley, a phalanx of bearded warriors
Moving forward.
Tall rye which billows as the sea;
Billows of plenty.
Fields of maize, rustling ribbons; waving banners;
An army of plumed captains, proud in their commission
That the children of men shall be fed.
Generous grain-fields of every sort,
Stately women, flushed of the sun.
Their hair blown by the wind,
Swaying, undulant, bearing golden vessels,
Full and overflowing.
Does a mother bear a child
And have no milk in her breasts?
Consider, also, the rewarding orchards,
Brides cloudily veiled in white and pink;
Serene in the prophecy of their pregnancy;
Vessels of incense carried before them.
Beautiful bevies of plums, pears,
Apples, cherries and apricots;
Ranks of nectarines, oranges, lemons, figs;
Luscious peaches, with sun-burned cheeks,
Blushing maidens who look modestly down.
The peach-orchards perfume the September breeze
And peach leaves are aromatic in the hand.
Nut-trees,
Walnuts and wide-spreading chestnuts,
Casting heavy shade in mid-summer.
Almonds, cousins to peach-trees,
Both from Persia, the country of Omar, Sadi,
Hafiz, and Firdausi.
Green almonds, white and sweet as milk.
Almond-leaves withering with a sweet spice;
Tall pecans in rich river-bottoms.
Hickory-trees with shining, pungent leaves,
Plates of gold in October.
Vineyards, arbored and festooned,
Where the wild doves crouch upon the ground
In the shade of the vines
And daintily stepping deer come by moonlight;
Ruby, amber and purple bunches,
Sweet and nectared, filling the air
With delicate musk.
Vineyards in serried ranks on steep hillsides,
Sloping toward the South;
The grotesque, gnarled and twisted vines,
Crooked gnomes,
Bringing wine from Earth's cool cavern
To bless the festivals of friendship.
Does a mother bear children
And refuse to suckle them?
Or, having children, does she fail
To fold them to her bosom?
Not only the fields laugh to us,
As fat men sitting in the sun,
But the gardens are jovial as matrons bearing baskets.
Red beets, with purple leaves, blood-veined;
Golden carrots, with green plumes;
Lettuces which caught pink Aphrodite when she fell;
Burly cabbages, blue-green, silvered with a frost
Winter has forgotten.
Groping beans, which quickly clamber to the top;
Those ropes by which the very valiant Jack
Climbed from earth to clouds,
As so would I.
Peas blossoming as a flock of white butterflies,
And young peas, sugary in the pod.
Tomato-vines, hung with scarlet fruit,
Pink-stemmed pie-plant, voluptuous-leaved;
And all those countless gifts born
In the dark, mysterious earth:
Potatoes, turnips, onions and the parsnip
Which once was the deadly hemlock
That slew Socrates.
No, not hemlock slew him,
But the men he would have saved.
Now it has become wholesome;
The poison of yesterday, the food of tomorrow.
Artichokes, triumphant silvery thistles,
Called from the wayside and made royal.
Stout, up-pushing asparagus,
Challenging March with spears,
And wooing August with feathery fronds.
The purple egg-plant from Arabia,
And luscious melons from the Persians;
Melons of Nusrabad and Casaba.
Water-melons, chrysoprase casks of nectar.
Marvelous to be filled through so small a pipe.
Broad-leaved squashes,
Summoning Summer through golden trumpets,
And feeling the world with suspicious fingers.
Pumpkins, giant apples of Hesperides,
Big with promise.
Consider, too, the lowly grasses
Which feed the flocks upon the hills,
Pouring loaves exhaustlessly from the valleys;
And those cunning chemists, all the clover-tribe,
Lading the air of June with invitation
And distilling nectar for the bees,
And from the air recovering to unwearied Earth
Her nitrogen.
So is the cycle of fertility complete.
Is there any flaw in Nature,
Or any wart upon her excellence?
I know not at what time,
For Nature regards only the clock of the heavens
And keeps no calendar;
But I know she will not construct this beauty,
This plenty and endure Man's ugliness.
She will not scatter out of her treasure-house,
Abundance and endure that Man
Shall plunder his brother;
Shall her child destroy her storehouse
And leave her palace of ecstasy deserted?
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