Scribd Logo
Upload

Welcome to Scribd!

  • 406 views

    The Garden of Proserpine

    Uploaded by

    kam-sergius
    1) The speaker is tired of the troubles of the world and seeks only sleep in a quiet place. 2) In this place, life and death coexist peacefully and troubles from the outside world do not intrude. 3) The speaker envisions a field where pale, nameless people bow down and slumber until morning, finding rest like souls in purgatory awaiting the dawn.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd

    The Garden of Proserpine

    Uploaded by

    kam-sergius
    406 views1 page
    1) The speaker is tired of the troubles of the world and seeks only sleep in a quiet place. 2) In this place, life and death coexist peacefully and troubles from the outside world do not intrude. 3) The speaker envisions a field where pale, nameless people bow down and slumber until morning, finding rest like souls in purgatory awaiting the dawn.

    Original Description:

    poetry by Swinburne

    Copyright

    © © All Rights Reserved

    Available Formats

    PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd

    Did you find this document useful?

    Is this content inappropriate?

    1) The speaker is tired of the troubles of the world and seeks only sleep in a quiet place. 2) In this place, life and death coexist peacefully and troubles from the outside world do not intrude. 3) The speaker envisions a field where pale, nameless people bow down and slumber until morning, finding rest like souls in purgatory awaiting the dawn.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as pdf or txt
    406 views1 page

    The Garden of Proserpine

    Uploaded by

    kam-sergius
    1) The speaker is tired of the troubles of the world and seeks only sleep in a quiet place. 2) In this place, life and death coexist peacefully and troubles from the outside world do not intrude. 3) The speaker envisions a field where pale, nameless people bow down and slumber until morning, finding rest like souls in purgatory awaiting the dawn.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as pdf or txt
    of 1

    The Garden of Proserpine In the end it is not well.

    By Algernon Charles Swinburne


    Pale, beyond porch and portal,
    Here, where the world is quiet; Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
    Here, where all trouble seems Who gathers all things mortal
    Dead winds' and spent waves' riot With cold immortal hands;
    In doubtful dreams of dreams; Her languid lips are sweeter
    I watch the green field growing Than love's who fears to greet her
    For reaping folk and sowing, To men that mix and meet her
    For harvest-time and mowing, From many times and lands.
    A sleepy world of streams.
    She waits for each and other,
    I am tired of tears and laughter, She waits for all men born;
    And men that laugh and weep; Forgets the earth her mother,
    Of what may come hereafter The life of fruits and corn;
    For men that sow to reap: And spring and seed and swallow
    I am weary of days and hours, Take wing for her and follow
    Blown buds of barren flowers, Where summer song rings hollow
    Desires and dreams and powers And flowers are put to scorn.
    And everything but sleep.
    There go the loves that wither,
    Here life has death for neighbour, The old loves with wearier wings;
    And far from eye or ear And all dead years draw thither,
    Wan waves and wet winds labour, And all disastrous things;
    Weak ships and spirits steer; Dead dreams of days forsaken,
    They drive adrift, and whither Blind buds that snows have shaken,
    They wot not who make thither; Wild leaves that winds have taken,
    But no such winds blow hither, Red strays of ruined springs.
    And no such things grow here.
    We are not sure of sorrow,
    No growth of moor or coppice, And joy was never sure;
    No heather-flower or vine, To-day will die to-morrow;
    But bloomless buds of poppies, Time stoops to no man's lure;
    Green grapes of Proserpine, And love, grown faint and fretful,
    Pale beds of blowing rushes With lips but half regretful
    Where no leaf blooms or blushes Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
    Save this whereout she crushes Weeps that no loves endure.
    For dead men deadly wine.
    From too much love of living,
    Pale, without name or number, From hope and fear set free,
    In fruitless fields of corn, We thank with brief thanksgiving
    They bow themselves and slumber Whatever gods may be
    All night till light is born; That no life lives for ever;
    And like a soul belated, That dead men rise up never;
    In hell and heaven unmated, That even the weariest river
    By cloud and mist abated Winds somewhere safe to sea.
    Comes out of darkness morn.
    Then star nor sun shall waken,
    Though one were strong as seven, Nor any change of light:
    He too with death shall dwell, Nor sound of waters shaken,
    Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor any sound or sight:
    Nor weep for pains in hell; Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
    Though one were fair as roses, Nor days nor things diurnal;
    His beauty clouds and closes; Only the sleep eternal
    And well though love reposes, In an eternal night.

    You might also like