The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE1. Here, where all trouble seems I am tired of tears and laughter, For men that sow to reap: Here life has death for neighbour, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine,2 Pale beds of blowing rushes, Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes. For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number, They bow themselves and slumber And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, 8 16 24 32 Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. 56 64 72 80 88 |