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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE BASKET-MAKERS' SONG, by ANDRE THEURIET Poet's Biography First Line: Water-willows! Water-willows! Last Line: Through my fingers bend your billows! Subject(s): Fingers; Singing & Singers | |||
WATER-WILLOWS! Water-willows! Through my fingers bend your billows! Water-willows! Water-willows! You shall be the lowly cot, Where a mother lulls her baby with a ballad old and sweet, Pouting with its petalled lips, all white with milk and wet, To fall asleep with dimpled smile by happy dreams begot. Water-willows! Water-willows! Through my fingers bend your billows! You shall be the brimming basket filled with strawberries ripe and red, Which the girls have gone to gather in the mossy underwood. Homeward shall the sun in setting bring their laughing sisterhood With the odour of the strawberries wafted down the way they tread. Water-willows! Water-willows! Through my fingers bend your billows! You shall be the plaited winnower, which the ruddy farmer's wife Sets in motion 'neath the harvest, threshed and beaten by the flails, Whilst about her troop the sparrows from the barren eaves and vales, For the golden grain contending on the ground in clamorous strife. Water-willows! Water-willows! Through my fingers bend your billows! When the vineyards flush to purple at the mellow Autumn's prime, When the vintagers triumphant bear their booty from the hills, When the rosy wine-spate darkles round the curving staves and spills, Water-willows, you shall waken and about the barrels climb. Water-willows! Water-willows! Through my fingers bend your billows! You shall be the wicker prison of the captured singing bird And the treacherous trap secreted in the forest of the reeds, Where the speckled trout in rising 'twixt divided waters speeds And, bewildered, sinks down trembling, buffeting the bars that gird. Water-willows! Water-willows! Through my fingers bend your billows! Water-willows! Water-willows! You shall be the hurdle too For the weary basket-maker when they lay him cold and dead, Ripe and ready for his coffin, and they bear him to his bed Through the twilight by the meadows where his water-willows grew. Water-willows! Water-willows! Through my fingers bend your billows! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE APOLLO TRIO by CONRAD AIKEN BAD GIRL SINGING by MARK JARMAN CHAMBER MUSIC: 4 by JAMES JOYCE CHAMBER MUSIC: 5 by JAMES JOYCE CHAMBER MUSIC: 28 by JAMES JOYCE THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE IS LIKE THE SCENT OF SYRINGA by MINA LOY THE KEEPER'S SON by ANDRE THEURIET |
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