| | For those unfamiliar with who Prosperine is, this is the Roman name for the Greek Persephone in mythology. She was the wife of Pluto (Hades in Greek - ruler of the underworld), and daughter of Ceres (Demeter in Greek - goddess of harvest). She was allowed to come out of the underworld for 8 months out of the year to be with her mother (because she was tricked into eating a pomegranate with a string attached). Obviously, this story is the ancient reason for winter and spring, but it also symbolizes the recurring seed-life-death cycle in nature.
One interesting aspect is that despite not caring much for her hubby, she was jealous enough to keep him in line. One pretty little thing that caught Pluto's eye was zapped into the mint plant and another into a white poplar tree. Pluto didn't stray after that.
Here are the two Wikipedia links - with the Persophene entry being the better of the two and Prosperine being called Proserpina. (Bullfinch's version, which uses the Prosperine name, is easily available, but requires a quite bit of extra concentration to understand.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persephone
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proserpina
This is a better link with a very good short description at the beginning, but it is very long as the myth is given from many differernt sources (I did not read it all).
http://www.theoi.com/Kronos/Persephone.html
I read the full poem several times and am still trying to get my brain around what some of it means. There seems to be a lot of ambiguity. But the rhythm and rhyming are delicious. I liked very much the ababcccb rhyme scheme as it gives a sense of inevitability to the final line in each verse (from repeating "c" three times in a row for the hypnotic effect, then closing with "b," which was the last rhyme before it).
I never read much of Swinburne before, but I am glad I did. What beautiful style!
Why not give the whole poem so the readers at Solo can read it and enjoy it if they wish? Well, why not? I think I will.
Michael
The Garden of Prosperine
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Here, where the world is quiet,
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
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,
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,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.
Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
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;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
Today will die tomorrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
(Edited by Michael Stuart Kelly on 6/22, 10:25pm)
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