Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE MANDOLIN, by WILLIAM SHARP Poet's Biography First Line: Tinkle-trink, tinkle-trink, trinkle-trinkle, trink! Last Line: Trink! Alternate Author Name(s): Macleod, Fiona Subject(s): Dreams; Kisses; Rome, Italy; Silence; Sleep; Nightmares | ||||||||
Tinkle-trink, tinkle-trink, trinkle-trinkle, trink! Hark, the mandolin! Through the dusk the merry music falleth sweet. Where the fountain falls, Where the fountain falls all shimmering in the moonshine white, Tinkle-trink, tinkle-trink, trinkle-trinkle, trink! Where the wind-stirred olives quiver, Quiver, quiver, leaves a-quiver, White as silver in the moonlight but like bat-wings in the dusk, Where the great grey moths sail slowly Slowly, slowly, like faint dreams In the wildering woods of Sleep, Where no night or day is, But only, in dim twilights, the wan sheen Of the Moon of Sleep. Hark, the mandolin! Where the dark-coned cypress rises, Thin, more thin, till threadlike, wavering The last spray soars up as smoke, As a vanishing breath of incense, To the silent stars that glimmer In the veil of purple darkness, The deep vault of heaven that seemeth As a veil that falleth, A dark veil that foldeth gently The tired day-worn world, breathing stilly as a sleeping child. Hark, the mandolin: And a soft low sound of laughter! Tinkle-trink, tinkle-trink, trinkle-trinkle, trink! Hush: from out the cypress standing Black against the yellow moonlight What a thrill, what a sob, what a sudden rapture flung Athwart the dark! Passion of song! Silence again, save 'mid the whispering leaves The unquiet wind, that as the tide Cometh and goeth. Now one long thrilling note, prolonged and sweet, And then a low swift stir, A whirr of fluttering wings, And, in the laurels near, two nested nightingales! Loud, loud, the mandolin, Tinkle-trink, tinkle-trink, trinkle-trinkle, trink, Trink, trink, trinkle-trink! Through the fragrant silent night it draweth near, Ah, the low cry, the little laugh, the rustle: Tinkle-trink -- hush, a kiss -- tinkle-trink -- hush -- hush -- Tinkle-trink, tinkle-trink, trinkle-trinkle, trink! Where the shadows massed together Make a hollow darkness, girt By the yellow flood of moonshine floating by, Where the groves of ilex whisper In the silence, fragrant, sweet, Where the ilexes are dreaming In their depths of darkest shadow, Move the fireflies slowly, Mazily inweaving, Interweaving, interflowing; Wandering fires, like little lanterns Borne by souls of birds and flowers Seeking ever resurrection In the gladsome world of sunshine; Seekly vainly through the darkness In beneath the ilex-branches Where the very moonshine faileth, And the dark grey moths wave wanly Flitting from the outer gloaming. Oh, the fragrance, and the mystery, and the silence! Where the fireflies, 'mid the ilex, Rise and fall, recross, inweave In an endless wavy motion, In a slow aerial dancing In a maze of little flames In and out the ilex-branches: Hush! the mandolin! Louder still, and louder, louder: Ah, the happy laugh, and rustle, Rustle, rustle, Ah, the kiss, the cry, the rapture. Silence, where the ilex-branches Loom out faintly from their darkness Where, slow-wandering flames, the fireflies Rise and fall, recross, inweave In an endless wavy motion, In a slow aerial dancing. Silence: not a breath is stirring: Not a leaflet quivers faintly. Silence: even the bats are silent Wheeling swiftly through the upper air, Where the gnat's thin shrilling music Fades into the flooding moonlight: Hush, low whispered words and kisses, Hush, a cry of pain, of rapture. Not a sound, a sound thereafter, But a low sweet sigh of breathing, And, from out the flowering laurel, Just a twittering breath of music, Just a long-drawn pulsing note Of a sweet and passionate answer. Silence: hark, a stir -- low laughter -- Whispered words -- and rustle -- rustle -- Trink -- trink -- the mandolin! Hark, it trinkles down the valley, Trink-trink, trinkle-trink, trinkle-trink! Past the cistus, blooming whitely, Past the oleander-bushes, Past the ilexes and olives, Where the two tall pines are whispering With the sleepy wind that foldeth His tired pinions ere he sleepeth On the flood of amber moonlight. Wind o' the night, tired wind o' night -- Tinkle-trink, trink, trinkle-trink, Trink, trinkle-trink, Trink! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VARIATIONS: 14 by CONRAD AIKEN VARIATIONS: 18 by CONRAD AIKEN LIVE IT THROUGH by DAVID IGNATOW A DREAM OF GAMES by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE DREAM OF WAKING by RANDALL JARRELL APOLOGY FOR BAD DREAMS by ROBINSON JEFFERS |
|