Good night! good night! — the golden day Has veiled its sunset beam, And twilight’s star its beauteous ray Has mirrored in the stream; — Low voices come from vale and height, And murmur soft, good night! good night!
Good night! — the bee with folded wings Sleeps sweet in honeyed flowers, And far away the night-bird sings In dreamy forest bowers, And slowly fades the western light In deepening shade, — good night! good night!
Good night! good night! — in whispers low The ling’ring zephyr sighs. And softly, in its dreamy flow. The murm’ring brook replies; And, where yon casement still is bright, A softer voice has breathed good-night!
Good night! — as steals the cooling dew Where the young violet lies. E’en so may slumber steal anew To weary human eyes. And softly steep the aching sight In dewy rest — good night! good night!
I was delighted to discover linden trees, Tilia tomentosa, in Thessaloniki last month, and in bloom, smelling so sweet. This month I came across a poem about them.
Linden Tree in Thessaloniki
LINDEN TREE WHISPERS
You know how the linden tree whispers In the springtime, at night, by the light of the moon? My love sleeps, my love sleeps, Let’s go and wake her up, kiss her eyes. My love sleeps . . . You heard because of the way the linden tree whispers.
Do you know how the old grove sleeps? It sees everything, even through the fog. Here is the moon, here are the stars, the nightingales. “I am yours,” overheard the old grove. And those nightingales . . . Well! You already know, how the old grove sleeps!
When I got to the airport I rushed up to the desk, bought a ticket, ten minutes later they told me the flight was cancelled, the doctors had said my father would not live through the night and the flight was cancelled. A young man with a dark brown moustache told me another airline had a nonstop leaving in seven minutes. See that elevator over there, well go down to the first floor, make a right, you’ll see a yellow bus, get off at the second Pan Am terminal, I ran, I who have no sense of direction raced exactly where he’d told me, a fish slipping upstream deftly against the flow of the river. I jumped off that bus with those bags I had thrown everything into in five minutes, and ran, the bags wagged me from side to side as if to prove I was under the claims of the material, I ran up to a man with a flower on his breast, I who always go to the end of the line, I said Help me. He looked at my ticket, he said Make a left and then a right, go up the moving stairs and then run. I lumbered up the moving stairs, at the top I saw the corridor, and then I took a deep breath, I said goodbye to my body, goodbye to comfort, I used my legs and heart as if I would gladly use them up for this, to touch him again in this life. I ran, and the bags banged against me, wheeled and coursed in skewed orbits, I have seen pictures of women running, their belongings tied in scarves grasped in their fists, I blessed my long legs he gave me, my strong heart I abandoned to its own purpose, I ran to Gate 17 and they were just lifting the thick white lozenge of the door to fit it into the socket of the plane. Like the one who is not too rich, I turned sideways and slipped through the needle’s eye, and then I walked down the aisle toward my father. The jet was full, and people’s hair was shining, they were smiling, the interior of the plane was filled with a mist of gold endorphin light, I wept as people weep when they enter heaven, in massive relief. We lifted up gently from one tip of the continent and did not stop until we set down lightly on the other edge, I walked into his room and watched his chest rise slowly and sink again, all night I watched him breathe.
Dried up old cactus yellowing in several limbs sitting on my kitchen window I’d given you up for dead but you’ve done it again overnight with a tasselled trumpet flower and a monstrous blare of red! So it’s June, June again, hot sun birdsong and dry air; we remember the desert and the cities where grass is rare. Here by the willow-green river we lie awake in the terrace because it’s June, June again; nobody wants to sleep when we can rise through the beech trees unknown and unpoliced unprotected veterans abandoning our chores to sail out this month in nightgowns as red and bold as yours; because it’s June, June again. Morning will bring birdsong but we’ve learnt on our bodies how each Summer day is won from soil, the old clay soil and that long, cold kingdom.
Gladsome Lights 