Irradiations

               I

The spattering of the rain upon pale terraces

Of afternoon is like the passing of a dream

Amid the roses shuddering 'gainst the wet green stalks

Of the steaming tree -- the passing of the wind

Upon the pale lower terraces of my dream

Is like the crinkling of the wet grey robes

Of the hours that come to turn over the urn

Of the day and spill its rainy dream.

Vague movement over the puddled terraces:

Heavy gold pennons -- a pomp of solemn gardens

Half hidden under the liquid veil of spring:

Far trumpets like a vague rout of faded roses

Burst 'gainst the wet green silence of distant forests:

A clash of cymbals -- then the swift swaying footsteps

Of the wind that undulates along the languid terraces.

Pools of rain -- the vacant terraces

Wet, chill and glistening

Towards the sunset beyond the broken doors of to-day.

               II

The iridescent vibrations of midsummer light

Dancing, dancing, suddenly flickering and quivering

Like little feet or the movement of quick hands clapping

Or the rustle of furbelows or the clash of polished gems.

The palpitant mosaic of the midday light

Colliding, sliding, leaping and lingering:

O, I could lie on my back all day,

And mark the mad ballet of the midsummer sky.

               III

Over the roof-tops race the shadows of clouds;

Like horses the shadows of clouds charge down the street.

Whirlpools of purple and gold,

Wind from the mountains of cinnabar,

Lacquered mandarin moments, palanquins swaying and balancing

Amid the vermilion pavilions, against the jade balustrades.

Glint of the glittering wings of dragon-flies in the light:

Silver filaments, golden flakes settling downwards,

Rippling, quivering flutters, repulse and surrender,

The sun broidered upon the rain,

The rain rustling with the sun.

Over the roof-tops race the shadows of clouds;

Like horses the shadows of clouds charge down the street.

               IV

The balancing of gaudy broad pavilions

Of summer against the insolent breeze:

The bellying of the sides of striped tents,

Swelling taut, shuddering in quick collapse,

Silent under the silence of the sky.

Earth is streaked and spotted

With great splashes and dapples of sunlight:

The sun throws an immense circle of hot light upon the world,

Rolling slowly in ponderous rhythm

Darkly, musically forward.

All is silent under the steep cone of afternoon:

The sky is imperturbably profound.

The ultimate divine union seems about to be accomplished,

All is troubled at the attainment

Of the inexhaustible infinite.

The rolling and the tossing of the side of immense pavilions

Under the whirling wind that screams up the cloudless sky.

               V

Flickering of incessant rain

On flashing pavements:

Sudden scurry of umbrellas:

Bending, recurved blossoms of the storm.

The winds came clanging and clattering

From long white highroads whipping in ribbons up summits:

They strew upon the city gusty wafts of apple-blossom,

And the rustling of innumerable translucent leaves.

Uneven tinkling, the lazy rain

Dripping from the eaves.

               VI

The fountain blows its breathless spray

From me to you and back to me.

Whipped, tossed, curdled,

Crashing, quivering:

I hurl kisses like blows upon your lips.

The dance of a bee drunken with sunlight:

Irradiant ecstacies, white and gold,

Sigh and relapse.

The fountain tosses pallid spray

Far in the sorrowful, silent sky.

               VII

The trees, like great jade elephants,

Chained, stamp and shake 'neath the gadflies of the breeze;

The trees lunge and plunge, unruly elephants:

The clouds are their crimson howday-canopies,

The sunlight glints like the golden robe of a Shah.

Would I were tossed on the wrinkled backs of those trees.

               VIII

Brown bed of earth, still fresh and warm with love,

Now hold me tight:

Broad field of sky, where the clouds laughing move,

Fill up my pores with light:

You trees, now talk to me, chatter and scold or weep,

Or drowsing stand:

You winds, now play with me, you wild things creep,

You boulders, bruise my hand!

I now am yours and you are mine: it matters not

What gods herein I see:

You grow in me, I am rooted to this spot,

We drink and pass the cup, immortally.

               IX

O seeded grass, you army of little men

Crawling up the long slope with quivering, quick blades of steel:

You who storm millions of graves, tiny green tentacles of earth,

Interlace yourselves tightly over my heart,

And do not let me go:

For I would lie here forever and watch with one eye

The pilgrimaging ants in your dull, savage jungles,

The while with the other I see the stiff lines of the slope

Break in mid-air, a wave surprisingly arrested,

And above them, wavering, dancing, bodiless, colourless, unreal,

The long thin lazy fingers of the heat.

               X

To-day you shall have but little song from me,

For I belong to the sunlight.

This I would not barter for any kingdom.

I am a wheeling swallow,

Blue all over is my delight.

I am a drowsy grass-blade

In the greenest shadow.

John Gould Fletcher