The Tuft of Flowers

I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been—alone,

‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’

But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,

Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.

And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

Nor yet to draw one though of ours to him,
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

‘Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’

Robert Frost

Robert Frost wrote this poem at the end of the nineteenth century when grass was cut by hand using a scythe. He worked on farmland and this is probably a first hand reflection when he had the job of turning cut meadow grass.

The flower festival in Canberra has just ended and all the bulbs will be taken out so it is a fitting poem for this time of year. Whether the gardeners will leave some form of memory of the magnificence of the spring showing is another matter.

Often when we work with nature there is something of beauty we must destroy … there is always a desire to keep something of what we are taking … this is clearly evident in the work of the reaper … he wants to keep something of that beauty … it is of course a message too to another who may come that way.

But the main thought that came through was that when we take on a job following the work of another … which is always the case … there is always a connection something left behind … and hopefully something to enjoy … no empty coke cans lying in the furrows … and even if there are negatives can we find a positive and maybe first the butterfly to lead us to that positive … and in that sense we are never alone as we incorporate the connecting positives in our own work.

I do like that word ‘tuft’ – a small bunch of hair, grass, feathers, or fibres held or growing together at the base.

Cherry-Ripe

There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that done may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds fill’d with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her bows like bended bows do stand,
Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!

Anonymous

I found this poem in ‘The Golden Treasury’ an old anthology. I was actually looking for some garden poetry and this caught my eye. The archaic language and structure is clearly evident of poetry written in the seventeenth century.

According to the Internet and Wikipedia this poem was written by Thomas Campion – Thomas Campion (sometimes Campian) (12 February 1567 – 1 March 1620) was an English composer, poet, and physician. He wrote over a hundred lute songs, masques for dancing, and an authoritative technical treatise on music.

What is Cherry-Ripe – not just a statement on a full red colour – after reading this poem with the repetition of the last line in each stanza perhaps it is more a call –  ‘red and ready’  – and with the implication ready to be tasted.

Poets often link words to form a new joint association – cherry and ripe marry nicely in the mind – you could say a tasteful sensual association.

Cherry-Ripe is perhaps more known today as a Cadburys chocolate bar – at least in Australia.

The poem gives a certain lip-service to the sacred (virgin) lady who cannot be bought or sold.  A lady who is only accessible on maturity and when that lady indicates that she is ready – which is not a certainty. In fact the most beautiful may remain inaccessible as a cry of ‘Cherry-Ripe’ would only detract from that beauty – ‘Cherry-Ripe bars’ sound very nice but they are a bit sickly.

Apart from the obvious love connotation and the ‘wooing a beautiful maiden’ nature of the words it does say something about being patient and waiting for the appropriate time whether or not it eventuates.

Incidentally cherry picking time is November in Australia – the first trays fetch high prices in the markets – but I can wait, I’m not that desperate.

At a recent U3A meeting one member of our group mentioned that when she was taught she was told that the following lines from ‘Paradise Lost’ were the most important (Book 4 lines 634 to 658 ) … my comments in bracketed italics after each section of this text  –

With thee conversing I forget all time,
All seasons and thir change, all please alike.

(This is a statement made by Adam to Eve … a statement on the importance of the communion with Eve. Adam and Eve is arguably the greatest love story and here we see Adam completely focused on Eve and time stops – the equivalent to eternity taking place … and coupled with this all the seasons and the changes in the seasons are meaningless. So what can I say, he is completely ‘lost’ in paradise!)

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest Birds; pleasant the Sun
When first on this delightful Land he spreads
His orient Beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flour,
Glistring with dew; fragrant the fertil earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful Eevning milde, then silent Night
With this her solemn Bird and this fair Moon,
And these the Gemms of Heav’n, her starrie train:

(Here we see a description of paradise in terms of environment … the beauty of the natural world and the start of the day defined by bird sound. Orient refers to the eastern part of the sky where the sun rises. Charm is a well-chosen word – the power to attract people – and people have a natural affinity to nature – well they are part of nature of course. Interesting  that the suggestion is that evening is grateful. Night is silent to birdlife – well not entirely. The stars the gems of heaven – the earth integrated with heaven)

But neither breath of Morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest Birds, nor rising Sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, floure,
Glistring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful Eevning mild, nor silent Night
With this her solemn Bird, nor walk by Moon,
Or glittering Starr-light without thee is sweet.

(But this form of paradise is now negated but first a duplication of the opening description of paradise adding emphasis to the value of the natural world – the last four words give reason – ‘without thee is sweet’ – implying  without Eve paradise is a meaningless experience. We can of course extend this to life without communion with another – life has meaning only in terms of relationship and communion with your fellow man-woman.)

But wherfore all night long shine these, for whom
This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?

(At night we can’t see the sky and we are oblivious to nature – dead as it were … perhaps it is the same for Adam without Eve, metaphorically speaking)