1777
by: Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
I -- THE TRUMPET-VINE
ARBOR
- HE throats
of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open,
- And the clangor of brass beats against the hot sunlight.
- They bray and blare at the burning sky.
- Red! Red! Coarse notes of red,
- Trumpeted at the blue sky.
- In long streaks of sound, molten metal,
- The vine declares itself.
- Clang!--from its red and yellow trumpets;
- Clang!--from its long, nasal trumpets,
- Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with
noise.
- I sit in the cool arbor, in a green and gold twilight.
- It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets,
- I only know that they are red and open,
- And that the sun above the arbor shakes with heat.
- My quill is newly mended,
- And makes fine-drawn lines with its point.
- Down the long white paper it makes little lines,
- Just lines--up--down--criss-cross.
- My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill;
- It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen.
- My hand marches to a squeaky tune,
- It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes.
- My pen and the trumpet-flowers,
- And Washington's armies away over the smoke-tree to the southwest.
- "Yankee Doodle," my darling! It is you against
the British,
- Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George.
- What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager.
- Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting
for.
- Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target!
- Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from
the housetop,
- Through Father's spy-glass,
- The red city, and the blue, bright water,
- And puffs of smoke which you made.
- Twenty miles away,
- Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck,
- But the smoke was white--white!
- To-day the trumpet flowers are red--red--
- And I cannot see you fighting;
- But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada,
- And Myra sings "Yankee Doodle" at her milking.
-
- The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine,
- And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air.
-
- II -- THE CITY
OF FALLING LEAVES
-
- Leaves fall,
- Brown leaves,
- Yellow leaves streaked with brown.
- They fall,
- Flutter,
- Fall again.
- The brown leaves,
- And the streaked yellow leaves,
- Loosen on their branches
- And drift slowly downwards.
- One,
- One, two, three,
- One, two, five.
- All Venice is a falling of autumn leaves--
- Brown,
- And yellow-streaked with brown.
-
- "That sonnet, Abate,
- Beautiful,
- I am quite exhausted by it.
- Your phrases turn about my heart,
- And stifle me to swooning.
- Open the window, I beg.
- Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins!
- 'Tis really a shame to stop indoors.
- Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself.
- Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air!
- See how straight the leaves are falling.
- Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver
fringe,
- It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle.
- Am I well painted to-day, caro Abate mio?
- You will be proud of me at the Ridotto, hey?
- Proud of being cavalier servente to such a lady?"
- "Can you doubt it, bellissima Contessa?
- A pinch more rouge on the right cheek,
- And Venus herself shines less . . ."
- "You bore me, Abate,
- I vow I must change you!
- A letter, Achmet?
- Run and look out of the window, Abate.
- I will read my letter in peace."
-
- The little black slave with the yellow satin turban
- Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes.
- His yellow turban and black skin
- Are gorgeous--barbaric.
- The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings
- Lies on a chair,
- Beside a black mantle and a black mask.
- Yellow and black,
- Gorgeous--barbaric.
- The lady reads her letter,
- And the leaves drift slowly
- Past the long windows.
- "How silly you look, my dear Abate,
- With that great brown leaf in your wig.
- Pluck it off, I beg you,
- Or I shall die of laughing."
-
- A yellow wall,
- Aflare in the sunlight,
- Chequered with shadows--
- Shadows of vine-leaves,
- Shadows of masks.
- Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant,
- Then passing on,
- More masks always replacing them.
- Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind
- Pursuing masks with veils and high heels,
- The sunlight shining under their insteps.
- One,
- One, two,
- One, two, three,
- There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall,
- Filigreed at the top with moving leaves.
- Yellow sunlight and black shadows,
- Yellow and black,
- Gorgeous--barbaric.
- Two masks stand together,
- And the shadow of a leaf falls through them,
- Marking the wall where they are not.
- From hat-tip to shoulder-tip,
- From elbow to sword-hilt,
- The leaf falls,
- The shadows mingle,
- Blur together,
- Slide along the wall and disappear.
-
- Gold of mosaics and candles,
- And night-blackness lurking in the ceiling beams.
- Saint Mark's glitters with flames and reflections.
- A cloak brushes aside,
- And the yellow of satin
- Licks out over the colored inlays of the pavement.
- Under the gold crucifixes
- There is a meeting of hands
- Reaching from black mantles.
- Sighing embraces, bold investigations,
- Hide in confessionals,
- Sheltered by the shuffling of feet.
- Gorgeous--barbaric
- In its mail of jewels and gold,
- Saint Mark's looks down at the swarm of black masks;
- And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall,
- Flutter,
- Fall.
- Brown,
- And yellow streaked with brown.
-
- Blue-black the sky over Venice,
- With a pricking of yellow stars.
- There is no moon,
- And the waves push darkly against the prow
- Of the gondola,
- Coming from Malamocco
- And streaming toward Venice.
- It is black under the gondola hood,
- But the yellow of a satin dress
- Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger.
- Yellow compassed about with darkness,
- Yellow and black,
- Gorgeous-barbaric.
- The boatman sings,
- It is Tasso that he sings;
- The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles,
- And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming
dawn.
- But at Malamocco in front,
- In Venice behind,
- Fall the leaves,
- Brown,
- And yellow streaked with brown.
- They fall,
- Flutter,
- Fall.
"1777" is reprinted from
Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1916. Ed. William Stanley
Braithwaite. New York: Laurence J. Gomme, 1916. |
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POEMS BY AMY LOWELL |
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