Selected Poems (Aiken)/And in the Hanging Gardens
AND IN THE HANGING GARDENS
And in the hanging gardens there is rainFrom midnight until one, striking the leavesAnd bells of flowers, and stroking boles of planes,And drawing slow arpeggios over pools,And stretching strings of sound from eaves to ferns.The princess reads. The knave of diamonds sleeps.The king is drunk, and flings a golden gobletDown from the turret window (curtained with rain)Into the lilacs.
And at one o'clockThe vulcan under the garden wakes and beatsThe gong upon his anvil. Then the rainCeases, but gently ceases, dripping still,And sound of falling water fills the darkAs leaves grow bold and upright, and as eavesPart with water. The princess turns the pageBeside the candle, and between two braidsOf golden hair. And reads: "From there I wentNorthward a journey of four days, and cameTo a wild village in the hills, where noneWas living save the vulture and the rat,And one old man, who laughed, but could not speak.The roofs were fallen in; the well grown overWith weed; and it was there my father died. Then eight days further, bearing slightly west,The cold wind blowing sand against our faces,The food tasting of sand. And as we stoodBy the dry rock that marks the highest pointMy brother said: 'Not too late is it yetTo turn, remembering home.' And we were silentThinking of home." The princess shuts her eyesAnd feels the tears forming beneath her eyelidsAnd opens them, and tears fall on the page.The knave of diamonds in the darkened roomThrows off his covers, sleeps, and snores again.The king goes slowly down the turret stairsTo find the goblet.
And at two o'clockThe vulcan in his smithy undergroundUnder the hanging gardens, where the dripOf rain among the clematis and ivyStill falls from sipping flower to purple flower,Smites twice his anvil, and the murmur comesAmong the roots and vines. The princess reads:"As I am sick, and cannot write you more,Nor have not long to live, I give this letterTo him, my brother, who will bear it southAnd tell you how I died. Ask how it was,There in the northern desert, where the grassWas withered, and the horses, all but one,Perished" . . . The princess drops her golden headUpon the page between her two white armsAnd golden braids. The knave of diamonds wakesAnd at his window in the darkened roomWatches the lilacs tossing, where the kingSeeks for the goblet.
And at three o'clockThe moon inflames the lilac heads, and thriceThe vulcan, in his root-bound smithy, clangsHis anvil; and the sounds creep softly upAmong the vines and walls. The moon is round,Round as a shield above the turret top.The princess blows her candle out, and weeps In the pale room, where scent of lilac comes,Weeping, with hands across her eyelids, thinkingOf withered grass, withered by sandy wind.The knave of diamonds, in his darkened room,Holds in his hands a key, and softly stepsAlong the corridor, and slides the keyInto the door that guards her. Meanwhile, slowly,The king, with raindrops on his beard and hands,And dripping sleeves, climbs up the turret stairs,Holding the goblet upright in one hand;And pauses on the midmost step, to tasteOne drop of wine, wherewith wild rain has mixed.