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lirik lagu sean barrett - oscar wilde - the garden of eros

it is full summer now, the heart of june;
not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir
upon the upland meadow where too soon
rich autumn time, the season’s usurer
will lend his h~~rded gold to all the trees
and see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze

too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil
that love~child of the spring, has lingered on
to vex the rose with jealousy, and still
the harebell sprеads her azure pavilion
and like a strayеd and wandering reveller
abandoned of its brothers, whom long since june’s messenger

the missel~thrush has frighted from the glade
one pale narcissus loiters fearfully
close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
of their own loveliness some violets lie
that will not look the gold sun in the face
for fear of too much splendour, ~ ah! methinks it is a place

which should be trodden by persephone
when wearied of the flowerless fields of dis!
or danced on by the lads of arcady!
the hidden secret of eternal bliss
known to the grecian here a man might find
ah! you and i may find it now if love and sleep be kind
there are the flowers which mourning herakles
strewed on the tomb of hylas, columbine
its white doves all a~flutter where the breeze
kissed them too harshly, the small celandine
that yellow~kirtled chorister of eve
and lilac lady’s~smock, ~ but let them bloom alone, and leave

yon spired hollyhock red~crocketed
to sway its silent chimes, else must the bee
its little bellringer, go seek instead
some other pleasaunce; the anemone
that weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl
before her love, and hardly lets the b~tterflies unfurl

their painted wings beside it, ~ bid it pine
in pale virginity; the winter snow
will suit it better than those lips of thine
whose fires would but scorch it, rather go
and pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone
fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own

the trumpet~mouths of red convolvulus
so dear to maidens, creamy meadow~sweet
whiter than juno’s throat and odorous
as all arabia, hyacinths the feet
of huntress dian would be loth to mar
for any dappled fawn, ~ pluck these, and those fond flowers which are
fairer than what queen venus trod upon
beneath the pines of ida, eucharis
that morning star which does not dread the sun
and budding marjoram which but to kiss
would sweeten cytheraea’s lips and make
adonis jealous, ~ these for thy head, ~ and for thy girdle take

yon curving spray of purple clematis
whose gorgeous dye outflames the tyrian king
and foxgloves with their nodding chalices
but that one narciss which the startled spring
let from her kirtle fall when first she heard
in her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s bird

ah! leave it for a subtle memory
of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun
when april laughed between her tears to see
the early primrose with shy footsteps run
from the gnarled oak~tree roots till all the wold
spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering gold

nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet
as thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!
and when thou art a~wearied at thy feet
shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry
for thee the woodbine shall forget its pride
and veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied
and i will cut a reed by yonder spring
and make the wood~gods jealous, and old pan
wonder what young intruder dares to sing
in these still haunts, where never foot of man
should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy
the marble limbs of artemis and all her company

and i will tell thee why the jacinth wears
such dread embroidery of dolorous moan
and why the hapless nightingale forbears
to sing her song at noon, but weeps alone
when the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast
and why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east

and i will sing how sad proserpina
unto a grave and gloomy lord was wed
and lure the silver~breasted helena
back from the lotus meadows of the dead
so shalt thou see that awful loveliness
for which two mighty hosts met fearfully in war’s abyss!

and then i’ll pipe to thee that grecian tale
how cynthia loves the lad endymion
and hidden in a grey and misty veil
hies to the cliffs of latmos once the sun
leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase
of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace

and if my flute can breathe sweet melody
we may behold her face who long ago
dwelt among men by the aegean sea
and whose sad house with pillaged portico
and friezeless wall and columns toppled down
looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town

spirit of beauty! tarry still awhile
they are not dead, thine ancient votaries;
some few there are to whom thy radiant smile
is better than a thousand victories
though all the n0bly slain of waterloo
rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few

who for thy sake would give their manlihood
and consecrate their being; i at least
have done so, made thy lips my daily food
and in thy temples found a goodlier feast
than this starved age can give me, spite of all
its new~found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical

here not cephissos, not ilissos flows
the woods of white colonos are not here
on our bleak hills the olive never blows
no simple priest conducts his lowing steer
up the steep marble way, nor through the town
do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus~flowered gown

yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best
whose very name should be a memory
to make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest
beneath the roman walls, and melody
still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play
the lute of adonais: with his lips song passed away

nay, when keats died the muses still had left
one silver voice to sing his threnody
but ah! too soon of it we were bereft
when on that riven night and stormy sea
panthea claimed her singer as her own
and slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone

save for that fiery heart, that morning star
of re~arisen england, whose clear eye
saw from our tottering throne and waste of war
the grand greek limbs of young democracy
rise mightily like hesperus and bring
the great republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing

and he hath been with thee at thessaly
and seen white atalanta fleet of foot
in passionless and fierce virginity
hunting the tusked boar, his honied lute
hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill
and venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still

and he hath kissed the lips of proserpine
and sung the galilaean’s requiem
that wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine
he hath discrowned, the ancient gods in him
have found their last, most ardent worshipper
and the new sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror

spirit of beauty! tarry with us still
it is not quenched the torch of poesy
the star that shook above the eastern hill
holds unassailed its argent armoury
from all the gathering gloom and fretful fight ~
o tarry with us still! for through the long and common night

morris, our sweet and simple chaucer’s child
dear heritor of spenser’s tuneful reed
with soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
the weary soul of man in troublous need
and from the far and flowerless fields of ice
has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise

we know them all, gudrun the strong men’s bride
aslaug and olafson we know them all
how giant grettir fought and sigurd died
and what enchantment held the king in thrall
when lonely brynhild wrestled with the powers
that war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours

long listless summer hours when the noon
being enamoured of a damask rose
forgets to journey westward, till the moon
the pale usurper of its tribute grows
from a thin sickle to a silver shield
and chides its loitering car ~ how oft, in some cool grassy field

far from the cricket~ground and noisy eight
at bagley, where the rustling bluebells come
almost before the blackbird finds a mate
and overstay the swallow, and the hum
of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves
have i lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves

and through their unreal woes and mimic pain
wept for myself, and so was purified
and in their simple mirth grew glad again;
for as i sailed upon that pictured tide
the strength and splendour of the storm was mine
without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine;

the little laugh of water falling down
is not so musical, the clammy gold
close h~~rded in the tiny waxen town
has less of sweetness in it, and the old
half~withered reeds that waved in arcady
touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony

spirit of beauty, tarry yet awhile!
although the cheating merchants of the mart
with iron roads profane our lovely isle
and break on whirling wheels the limbs of art
ay! though the crowded factories beget
the blindworm ignorance that slays the soul, o tarry yet!

for one at least there is, ~ he bears his name
from dante and the seraph gabriel, ~
whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
to light thine altar; he too loves thee well
who saw old merlin lured in vivien’s snare
and the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair

loves thee so well, that all the world for him
a gorgeous~coloured vestiture must wear
and sorrow take a purple diadem
or else be no more sorrow, and despair
gild its own th~rns, and pain, like adon, be
even in anguish beautiful; ~ such is the empery

which painters hold, and such the heritage
this gentle solemn spirit doth possess
being a better mirror of his age
in all his pity, love, and weariness
than those who can but copy common things
and leave the soul unpainted with its mighty questionings

but they are few, and all romance has flown
and men can prophesy about the sun
and lecture on his arrows ~ how, alone
through a waste void the soulless atoms run
how from each tree its weeping nymph has fled
and that no more ‘mid english reeds a naiad shows her head

methinks these new actaeons boast too soon
that they have spied on beauty; what if we
have ~n~lysed the rainbow, robbed the moon
of her most ancient, chastest mystery
shall i, the last endymion, lose all hope
because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!

what profit if this scientific age
burst through our gates with all its retinue
of modern miracles! can it assuage
one lover’s breaking heart? what can it do
to make one life more beautiful, one day
more godlike in its period? but now the age of clay

returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
hath borne again a noisy progeny
of ignorant titans, whose ungodly birth
hurls them against the august hierarchy
which sat upon olympus; to the dust
they have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must

repair for judgment; let them, if they can
from natural warfare and insensate chance
create the new ideal rule for man!
methinks that was not my inheritance;
for i was nurtured otherwise, my soul
passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal

lo! while we spake the earth did turn away
her visage from the god, and hecate’s boat
rose silver~laden, till the jealous day
blew all its torches out: i did not note
the waning hours, to young endymions
time’s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!

mark how the yellow iris wearily
leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed
by its false chamberer, the dragon~fly
who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white wrist
sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night
which ‘gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light

come let us go, against the pallid shield
of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam
the corncrake nested in the unmown field
answers its mate, across the misty stream
on fitful wing the startled curlews fly
and in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that day is nigh

scatters the pearled dew from off the grass
in tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun
who soon in gilded panoply will pass
forth from yon orange~curtained pavilion
hung in the burning east: see, the red rim
o’ertops the expectant hills! it is the god! for love of him

already the shrill lark is out of sight
flooding with waves of song this silent dell, ~
ah! there is something more in that bird’s flight
than could be tested in a crucible! ~
but the air freshens, let us go, why soon
the woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of june!

- lirik lagu sean barrett

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