Epithalamion for a Western World
TIME has not yet grown so gray
That my daughter’s wedding day
May see no guests come who are taller
Than mortals are, or brighter and smaller.
Our land is not too far to the west,
Too near the Pole, the snow-owl’s nest,
To frighten ones who foot it bare
And golden in the naked air.
That my daughter’s wedding day
May see no guests come who are taller
Than mortals are, or brighter and smaller.
Our land is not too far to the west,
Too near the Pole, the snow-owl’s nest,
To frighten ones who foot it bare
And golden in the naked air.
It was many years ago
Cupid learned to love the snow
And hand in hand with woolly Pan
Came north to live with the English man.
So maybe, if wars will allow,
Pan and Cupid will come now
Over Atlantic’s hills of bronze
To dance upon these western lawns.
For the first round yellow sun
This-bride saw was an English one;
This tall girl once on all fours
Crept and looked into the cores
Of British daisies when she started
Life with baby rose-lips parted.
So it would be only fair
For English deities to care
Enough to come and put all right
On my daughter’s wedding night.
Cupid learned to love the snow
And hand in hand with woolly Pan
Came north to live with the English man.
So maybe, if wars will allow,
Pan and Cupid will come now
Over Atlantic’s hills of bronze
To dance upon these western lawns.
For the first round yellow sun
This-bride saw was an English one;
This tall girl once on all fours
Crept and looked into the cores
Of British daisies when she started
Life with baby rose-lips parted.
So it would be only fair
For English deities to care
Enough to come and put all right
On my daughter’s wedding night.
And if the bridegroom will but nod,
Winged things from green Eire’s sod
May fly the ocean, one by one,
To befriend green Eire’s son.
Bringing the shamrock, bringing tunes
Made of harpstrings and white moons,
Fetching a small grandmother’s wish
For joy like a little silver dish.
And bringing to New England now
The breath of a little Mayo cow.
Winged things from green Eire’s sod
May fly the ocean, one by one,
To befriend green Eire’s son.
Bringing the shamrock, bringing tunes
Made of harpstrings and white moons,
Fetching a small grandmother’s wish
For joy like a little silver dish.
And bringing to New England now
The breath of a little Mayo cow.
Come, creatures of Eire and England! Hark!
Come on the wings of westering dark.
Oh, come with rainbows on your backs,
Come with blue flowers of the flax,
Pink hedgerose and the primrose, bold
To open its star to the March cold,
The mistletoe pearls from the gray oak,
Bluebells filling the woods like smoke,
Fritillaries lovely as the snake,
Lent-lilies that make a man’s heart ache,
The gold-dust sprinkled on the sky
Over the fields where cowslips lie.
Come on the wings of westering dark.
Oh, come with rainbows on your backs,
Come with blue flowers of the flax,
Pink hedgerose and the primrose, bold
To open its star to the March cold,
The mistletoe pearls from the gray oak,
Bluebells filling the woods like smoke,
Fritillaries lovely as the snake,
Lent-lilies that make a man’s heart ache,
The gold-dust sprinkled on the sky
Over the fields where cowslips lie.
Come, wings from the east! It is Eve of May!
Come over the sea, make holiday
Here with us, so golden, so blue
All will remember it. Bring with you
Little Puck with tanned wide ears,
Titania with laces made of tears.
Do not fear iron demons that creep
With swine-snouts poking through the deep.
Come! Make a gentle spot of mirth
Among vast sadnesses of earth!
Come over the sea, make holiday
Here with us, so golden, so blue
All will remember it. Bring with you
Little Puck with tanned wide ears,
Titania with laces made of tears.
Do not fear iron demons that creep
With swine-snouts poking through the deep.
Come! Make a gentle spot of mirth
Among vast sadnesses of earth!
Yet if the wide wars shut the door,
There are powers on our Maine shore,
Little geniuses of the place,
Who will be glad to come and grace
This holy night and giving of rings.
Come, small natives, on native wings!
There are powers on our Maine shore,
Little geniuses of the place,
Who will be glad to come and grace
This holy night and giving of rings.
Come, small natives, on native wings!
First to come will be the slender one
Who came with Pilgrims in the Mayflower band
But stayed so long out in the fierce new sun,
Looking for flowers, her English cheeks grew tanned,
And people think she is an Indian now
When they see her go
Under the buds below
The slim moon in an April maple grove,
Bearing bright baskets such as Indians wove,
To gather the mayflower stars beside the snow.
Who came with Pilgrims in the Mayflower band
But stayed so long out in the fierce new sun,
Looking for flowers, her English cheeks grew tanned,
And people think she is an Indian now
When they see her go
Under the buds below
The slim moon in an April maple grove,
Bearing bright baskets such as Indians wove,
To gather the mayflower stars beside the snow.
Small Yankees with their cheeks peppered with freckles
Thicker than the thrush’s eggs with speckles
Worship this Eve of May, April’s last night,
When their hearts pound, when they hang the white
Maybaskets on the doors of little girls
Looking like homemade taffy on their curls.
She will not fail to come, this is her weather,
She and the stars of spring will sing together.
Thicker than the thrush’s eggs with speckles
Worship this Eve of May, April’s last night,
When their hearts pound, when they hang the white
Maybaskets on the doors of little girls
Looking like homemade taffy on their curls.
She will not fail to come, this is her weather,
She and the stars of spring will sing together.
May Eve will bring the young Maine deities
Under the arrows of the northbound geese:
The white-complexioned girls of white-birch trees
To light this house and give this wedding peace;
Paul Bunyan will be here, smelling of spruce,
With his big blue ox;
The woodpecker who knocks
At the Great Spirit’s popple door to say
Winter is gone for good, and it is May
And wild ducks going north in chevroned flocks.
Under the arrows of the northbound geese:
The white-complexioned girls of white-birch trees
To light this house and give this wedding peace;
Paul Bunyan will be here, smelling of spruce,
With his big blue ox;
The woodpecker who knocks
At the Great Spirit’s popple door to say
Winter is gone for good, and it is May
And wild ducks going north in chevroned flocks.
Little heifers with star-foreheads will skip over
The bluets with lips smelling of white clover
And pennyroyal, and in from the ocean
A hundred happy porpoises with motion
The bluets with lips smelling of white clover
And pennyroyal, and in from the ocean
A hundred happy porpoises with motion
Like music will come through the azure billows
To this happy night. The popples, willows,
Will hang their golden-tasseled lamps to guide
And lighthouses turn bright eyes upon the bride.
To this happy night. The popples, willows,
Will hang their golden-tasseled lamps to guide
And lighthouses turn bright eyes upon the bride.
There will come the singer of them all,
The Maine white pine, to sing the wedding hymn
And fill this house with beauty wall to wall,
And by her side a doe will stand up slim,
A doe with head up like a slender maple,
And sharp-eyed raccoons
With eyes like little moons
Will stare and point their noses thin and shrewd
At the strange and tempting wedding food.
And round our roof will cry the mating loons.
The Maine white pine, to sing the wedding hymn
And fill this house with beauty wall to wall,
And by her side a doe will stand up slim,
A doe with head up like a slender maple,
And sharp-eyed raccoons
With eyes like little moons
Will stare and point their noses thin and shrewd
At the strange and tempting wedding food.
And round our roof will cry the mating loons.
Oh, there will be flowers and good garlands here:
White violets, hepaticas, the tear
Of an anemone, bird-on-the-wing,
The flower that flies and all but seems to sing,
The lady’s-slipper and the trillium.
From the Pole the pale slim dancers will come,
The northern lights, a million quick and tall,
And peepers’ silver songs come through our wall.
White violets, hepaticas, the tear
Of an anemone, bird-on-the-wing,
The flower that flies and all but seems to sing,
The lady’s-slipper and the trillium.
From the Pole the pale slim dancers will come,
The northern lights, a million quick and tall,
And peepers’ silver songs come through our wall.
So set open the door for these
Guests to our festivities,
Light bayberry candles, break the claws
Of red lobsters. Frighten wars
To the world’s far other side
For the sake of this slim bride;
Strew arbutus like the snow
Over the years she has to go.
Guests to our festivities,
Light bayberry candles, break the claws
Of red lobsters. Frighten wars
To the world’s far other side
For the sake of this slim bride;
Strew arbutus like the snow
Over the years she has to go.