In Praise of Mandragora
O, MANDRAGORA, many sing in praise
Of life, and death, and immortality,--
Of passion, that goes famished all her days,--
Of Faith, or fantasy;
Thou, all unpraised, unsung, I make this rhyme to thee.
The womby underworlds thy roots enclose,
In human shape, sprung from abhorrent seed;
But when through crumbling roof the daylight shows,
And thou my breast hast freed
Thou growest in the field as any flower or weed.
At many a cross-road bare thy leaves protrude,
Upon the brow of lonely, moon-blanched heath,
And from a loathly breast thou draggest food,
That moulders far beneath . . .
Whereon a crazy moon stares out and bares her teeth.
And sometimes, in the purblind face of morn
The stealthy hinds slink out to gather thee,
Then shudder, as thy shrieking roots are torn,
And turn at last, and flee,
Leaving a slimy pulp that bleedeth suddenly.
Ah!--well thou mayest shriek, for he who lies
In clotted earth, with stones upon his breast,
Feareth a victim who drags out his eyes
In vengeance deadliest,
While to thy loosened feet his screaming mouth is pressed!
O mystic one, thou hast a couch more dread
Than Isabella's Basil ever knew;--
Whose petals on gentle brow were fed,
Whose leaves in fragrance grew,
That Death, in sorrowful amend, made sweet with dew.
O Mandragora, though thy features dwell
Beneath the earth in such ill company
Far sweeter than that plant to Isabel,
Thy blossoms are to me.
Thou Root of dreamless sleep, take this in praise of thee!
Close thou Pandora's casket by whose aid
That goddess Discord queens the escapèd woes,
She had no power to hinder or dissuade,
Yet Mandragora shows
A hope uncabined, and a peace that conquers those!
From the Nepenthe doth her pitcher fill,
That barters with the merchandise of grief,
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poem by Muriel Stuart
Added by Poetry Lover
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