Victoria Mary Sackville-West

That I should live and look with open eyes I count as half my claim to Paradise. I have not crept beneath cathedral arches,

Tools with the comely names, Mattock and scythe and spade, Couth and bitter as flames,

Yes, they were kind exceedingly; most mild Even in indignation, taking by the hand One that obeyed them mutely, as a child

For years it had been neglected, This wilderness garden of ours, And its ruin had shone reflected

I know so well the busy cries That echo through the quarter Till daylight into evening dies

After a dream-dim voyage We came with sails all set Towards the city of the sea,

A sunny court with wooden balconies, And wool hung out to dry in gaudy skeins, A fountain, and some pigeons murmuringly

Above the city at his feet, Above the dome, above the sea, He rises unconfined and free

As the baying of wolves from afar, Borne on the wind from the Golden Horn A cry in the distance, long-drawn,

I Queen of a double empire still she stands, And watches with superb indifferent eyes

When I am in the Orient once again, And turn into the gay and squalid street, One side in the shadow, one in vivid heat,

I wrote the burning words to you That meant so much to me. I sent them speeding straight to you,

When little lights in little ports come out, Quivering down through water with the stars, And all the fishing fleet of slender spars

No eyes shall see the poems that I write For you; not even yours; but after long Forgetful years have passed on our delight

She was wearing the coral taffeta trousers Someone had brought her from Ispahan, And the little gold coat with pomegranate blossoms,

So prodigal was I of youth, Forgetting I was young; I worshipped dead men for their strength,

All her youth is gone, her beautiful youth outworn, Daughter of tarn and tor, the moors that were once her home No longer know her step on the upland tracks forlorn

She has an early morning of her own, A blending of the mist and sea and sun Into an undistinguishable one,

From the shores of the Atlantic to the gardens of Japan, From the darkness of the Neva to the courts of Ispahan, There is nothing that can hold us, hold our wandering caravan.

I see the work of others, and my heart Sinks as my own achievement I compare. I will not be irresolute, nor despair,

Lying on Downs above the wrinkling bay I with the kestrels shared the cleanly day, The candid day; wind-shaven, brindled turf;

Let us go back together to the hills. Weary am I of palaces and courts, Weary of words disloyal to my thoughts,,

"Convalescente di squisiti mali" My spirit like a shepherd boy Goes dancing down the lane.

Wine ran; rich yellow wine upon the marble floor Recklessly spilled; the Nubians ran to pour A fresh libation; and to scatter showers

I woke to daylight, and to find A wreath of fading vine-leaves, rough entwined, Lying, as dropped in hasty flight, upon my floor.

We owned a garden on a hill, We planted rose and daffodil, Flowers that English poets sing,

I would not venture to dispraise or praise. Too well I know the indifference which bounds A poet in the narrow working-grounds

October 1, 1913 I I left thee in the crowds and in the light,

So well she knew them both! yet as she came Into the room, and heard their speech Of tragic meshes knotted with her name,