Inconvenient News,
       by smintheus

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

  A rural Valentine

Digging out from the storm in another state, a city, longing for my valentine and cherished countryside, I took thought of this poem of Robert Frost, A Line-storm Song:

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.

*
* *


The poem also brought to mind that evergreen by Christopher Marlowe, The Passionate Shepherd to his Love:


Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.


And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.


And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;


A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;


A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.


The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

*
* *


I'm not myself a shepherd, thus my work now in a city. Nor have I known any shepherds to speak of, not personally. So I cannot vouch for the picture Mr. Marlowe presents of the many pleasures that await a shepherd's spouse in matrimonial estate. But I'd like to think that if I were in a position to call out my love to sit among the rocks, we'd have the leisure to wait for a day when the woods were a little less damp than Mr. Frost seems to prefer. Still, I'm with him in spirit.

Crossposted from Unbossed

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