To A Friend Who Sent Me A Box Of Violets

By Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Nay, more than violets These thoughts of thine, friend! Rather thy reedy brook-- Taw's tributary-- At midnight murmuring, Descried them, the delicate Dark-eyed goddesses, There by his cressy bed Dissolved and dreaming Dreams that distilled into dew All the purple of night, All the shine of a planet. Whereat he whispered; And they arising-- Of day's forget-me-nots The duskier sisters-- Descended, relinquished The orchard, the trout-pool, Torridge and Tamar, The Druid circles, Sheepfolds of Dartmoor, Granite and sandstone; By Roughtor, Dozmare, Down the vale of the Fowey Moving in silence, Brushing the nightshade By bridges cyclopean, By Trevenna, Treverbyn, Lawharne and Largin, By Glynn, Lanhydrock, Restormel, Lostwithiel, Dark wood, dim water, dreaming town; Down the vale of the Fowey To the tidal water Washing the feet Of fair St Winnow-- Each, in her exile Musing the message, Passed, as the starlit Shadow of Ruth from the land of the Moabite. So they came, Valley-born, valley-nurtured-- Came to the tideway The jetties, the anchorage, The salt wind piping, Snoring in Equinox, By ships at anchor, By quays tormented, Storm-bitten streets; Came to the Haven Crying, "Ah, shelter us, The strayed ambassadors, Love's lost legation On a comfortless coast!" Nay, but a little sleep, A little folding Of petals to the lull Of quiet rainfalls-- Here in my garden, In angle sheltered From north and east wind-- Softly shall recreate The courage of charity, Henceforth not to me only Breathing the message. Clean-breath'd Sirens! Hencefore the mariner.