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[SEE NOW THESE BERRIES DARK]
See now these berries dark along the hedge Hard as black withered blood drawn long ago Whose sap is frozen dry; a windy sedge Hides field from ashen field, pale lapwings go Whining above the heath, and floods are out Over the meadows clasped in frigid lace Of wintry avenues, ringed and fenced about – His life is a place like this, just such a place. For him no house, but only empty halls To fill with strangers’ voices and short grace Of passing laughter, while the shadows’ lace Creeps from the fire along dismantled walls, Uncertain tapestry of altering moods— Only the sunset’s hour, the solitudes Of sea and sky, the rain come with the spring; Dark winds that gnarl the olive trees, and moan Against the shuttered brain that thrills alone Each night more racked by its adventuring. Nancy Cunard, Parallax [printed and published by Leonard and Virginia Woolf’s Hogarth Press, London, 1925. First edition].
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| NANCY CUNARD Source ■ Voir aussi ▼ → (sur CCP, Cahier critique de poésie) une note de lecture de Patrice Corbin sur Parallaxe ■ Voir encore ▼ → le site des Carnets d’Eucharis |
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