Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE SEARCH FOR THE NIGHTINGALE (TO S.S.), by WALTER JAMES REDFERN TURNER Poet's Biography First Line: Beside a stony, shallow stream I sat Last Line: Leaving bright treasure on this calm air blown. Subject(s): Birds; Nightingales | ||||||||
1 BESIDE a stony, shallow stream I sat In a deep gully underneath a hill. I watched the water trickle down dark moss And shake the tiny boughs of maidenhair, And billow on the bodies of cold stone. And sculptured clear Upon the shoulder of that aerial peak Stood trees, the fragile skeletons of light, High in a bubble blown Of visionary stone. 2 Under that azurine transparent arch The hill, the rocks, the trees Were still and dreamless as the printed wood Black on the snowy page. It was the song of some diviner bird Than this still country knew, The words were twigs of burnt and blackened trees From which there trilled a voice, Shadowy and faint, as though it were the song The water carolled as it flowed along. 3 Lifting my head, I gazed upon the world, Carved in the breathless heat as in a gem, And watched the parroquets green-feathered fly Through crystal vacancy, and perch in trees That glittered in a thin, blue, haze-like dream, And the voice faded, though the water dinned Against the stones its dimming memory. And I ached then To hear that song burst out upon that scene, Startling an earth where it had never been. 4 And then I came unto an older world. The woods were damp, the sun Shone in a watery mist, and soon was gone; The trees were thick with leaves, heavy and old, The sky was grey, and blue, and like the sea Rolling with mists and shadowy veils of foam. I heard the roaring of an ancient wind Among the elms and in the tattered pines; Lighting pale hollows in the cloud-dark sky, A ghostly ship, the Moon, flew scudding by. 5 "O is it here," I cried, "that bird that sings So that the traveller in his frenzy weeps?" It was the autumn of the year, and leaves Fell with a dizzying moan, and all the trees Roared like the sea at my small impotent voice. And if that bird was there it did not sing, And I knew not its haunts, or where it went, But carven stood and raved! In that old wood that dripped upon my face Upturned below, pale in its passionate chase. 6 And years went by, and I grew slowly cold: I had forgotten what I once had sought. There are no passions that do not grow dim, And like a fire imagination sinks Into the ashes of the mind's cold grate. And if I dreamed, I dreamed of that far land, That coast of pearl upon a summer sea, Whose frail trees in unruffled amber sleep Gaudy with jewelled birds, whose feathers spray Bright founts of colour through the tranquil day. 7 The hill, the gully, and the stony stream I had not thought on when this spring I sat In a strange room with candles guttering down Into the flickering silence. From the Moon Among the trees still-wreathed upon the sky There came the sudden twittering of a ghost. And I stept out from darkness, and I saw The great pale sky immense, transparent, filled With boughs and mountains and wide-shining lakes Where stillness, crying in a thin voice, breaks. 8 It was the voice of that imagined bird. I saw the gully and that ancient hill, The water trickling down from Paradise Shaking the tiny boughs of maidenhair. There sat the dreaming boy. And O! I wept to see that scene again, To read the black print on that snowy page, I wept, and all was still. No shadow came into that sun-steeped glen, No sound of earth, no voice of living men. 9 Was it a dream or was it that in me A God awoke and gazing on his dream Saw that dream rise and gaze into its soul, Finding, Narcissus-like, its image there: A Song, a transitory Shape on water blown, Descending down the bright cascades of time, The shadowiest-flowering, ripple-woven bloom As ghostly as still waters' unseen foam That lies upon the air, as that song lay Within my heart on one far summer day? 10 Carved in the azure air white peacocks fly, Their fanning wings stir not the crystal trees, Bright parrots fade through dimming turquoise days, And music scrolls its lightning calm and bright On the pale sky where thunder cannot come. Into that world no ship has ever sailed, No seaman gazing with hand-shaded eyes Has ever seen its shore whiten the waves. But to that land the Nightingale has flown, Leaving bright treasure on this calm air blown. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE IS LIKE THE SCENT OF SYRINGA by MINA LOY THE NIGHTINGALE IN BADELUNDA by TOMAS TRANSTROMER THE NIGHTINGALE by PAUL VERLAINE ODE, FR. THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM by RICHARD BARNFIELD NIGHTINGALES by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE NIGHTINGALE; A CONVERSATION POEM by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ROMANCE by WALTER JAMES REDFERN TURNER |
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