6. COUNTRY LIFE

Countryside evenings: folk are walking around—
The poor man in his field, the rich in his grounds;
Me, I walk as the path leads me; the poet
Is home in God’s land: the all-where and through it.
I gladly walk solus. I ponder, hear nature talk.
Yet if someone asks me to join-in my walk,
I accept. Everyone carries something inside,
And each man’s a book in which God Himself writes.
And whenever one of these books comes my way—
A volume in which a soul lives, sealed by the grave—
I read it.

——So, here’s evening. I set out—I’m free—
I go, passing by, call on friends in amity.
We enjoy the cool air in the garden an hour.
The evening dew dampens the seats in the bower;
No matter! I sit down, and—can hardly doubt me—
All the little children come gather about me.
As soon as I’m seated they hurry around, all.
It’s because they know I share their tastes; they recall
That I love, as they do, air, butterflies, flowers,
And all the creatures that run through the furrows.
They know I am a man who loves them, adores,
A person with whom they can play, and make noise:
Shout, chatter, speak at the top of their lungs;
I used to laugh like them—and more—when I was young
And here now, whenever I watch them at play,
I beam a smile at them, though sadder today;
They say—sweet friends—I just don’t know how
To get angry; that I’m fun to be with; they avow
I make cardboard toys, and pen-and-ink sketches;
I tell—at the hour when the lamplight fetches—
Oh! charming tales that make you shiver at night,
That show I am gentle and humble and right.

So, the moment I’m seen—“There he is!"—they all run.
They leave games, hoops, and balls; they gather as one
With their beautiful, wide child-eyes—fearless, kind—
That seem always blue, as reflecting the sky!
The little ones—when one is small, one is brave—
Climb onto my knees; the older ones look grave;
They bring me blackbird nests they have found,
Albums, and pencils from Paris; turn round
With a hundred things to tell me now and after;
Chatting and laughing—and I love their laughter,
Not the mock-laugh of sarcasm, bitter and sharp
But sweet honest laugh opening mouths opening hearts,
Revealing both pearly teeth and souls in breast.

I admire their pencils, their books, blackbird nests;
And then, when I’ve finished admiring, they say:
“He’s in agreement with monsieur le curé!”
Then, when they’ve all of them chatted their share,
Suddenly—the older ones leant on my chair,
And the little ones still clustered on my knees—
They fall into silence that means: “Tell us, please.”

I tell them of everything. My words sow free
Ideas and facts in them. Because they love me,
They love what I say. I point out what’s ours:
The sky, God who hides there, the visible stars.
Everything—even their gaze—listens. I tell them
How to think, dream, how to seek. God blesses man,
Not for having found, but for having looked-for.
I say: Give alms to the humble, broken-down poor.
Accept every lesson, each rebuke with good grace.
To give and receive is to grow soul apace!
I tell them of life, and how, in sorrows and fears,
Kindness must lie at the heart of our tears;
And how, in our joys and our wild ecstasies,
Kindness must lie in our laughs’ revelries;
That being good means: to live well; that suffering
Can drive all things from a soul, except loving;
And that wicked men, in their deep hatred’s dearth,
Are wrong to blame God. Great God! No man on earth
Has the right, in walking the path as he picked it,
To say it was You, God, who fashioned him wicked;
For the wicked man, Lord, is not needed by You.

Also I tell them of history; the sorrow
Of the Jews—cursed, yet destined for blessing;
Of Greece, who lit up every future’s progressing;
Of Rome; ancient Egypt, its shadeless plains bare,
And all the dark sinister sights found there.
Fearful locations! All’s death. Man’s voice drops
Seeing those demons carved from granite blocks—
A monstrous Olympus of dark ages gone—
Sphinxes, Anubises, Mercuries, Ammons—
They’ve sat in the desert for four thousand years.
Around them the wind blows, the burning sand rears
Up like a sea from which huge heads emerge;
The mutilated stone retains some rough image
Of statue or spectre, recalling in place
The folds of a sheet draped on a corpse’s face;
You can still make out the mouth, the brow, nose, some-
Thing of eyes, then—I don’t know—fierce, loathsome,
Creature that gazes and lives—vague, ghastly mask.
At nighttime a traveller hurrying past
Is seized with dread—fancies the starlight reveals
Great giants, chained and mute, underneath veils.

La Terrasse, August 1840