I walk down the garden-paths,
\nAnd all the daffodils
\nAre blowing, and the bright blue squills.
\nI walk down the patterned garden-paths
\nIn my stiff, brocaded gown.
\nWith my powdered hair and jeweled fan,
\nI too am a rare
\nPattern. As I wander down
\nThe garden-paths.
\nMy dress is richly figured,
\nAnd the train
\nMakes a pink and silver stain
\nOn the gravel, and the thrift
\nOf the borders.
\nJust a plate of current fashion,
\nTripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
\nNot a softness anywhere about me,
\nOnly whalebone and brocade.
\nAnd I sink on a seat in the shade
\nOf a lime tree. For my passion
\nWars against the stiff brocade.
\nThe daffodils and squills
\nFlutter in the breeze
\nAs they please.
\nAnd I weep;
\nFor the lime-tree is in blossom
\nAnd one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
And the splashing of waterdrops
\nIn the marble fountain
\nComes down the garden-paths.
\nThe dripping never stops.
\nUnderneath my stiffened gown
\nIs the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
\nA basin in the midst of hedges grown
\nSo thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
\nBut she guesses he is near,
\nAnd the sliding of the water
\nSeems the stroking of a dear
\nHand upon her.
\nWhat is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
\nI should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
\nAll the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.<\/p>\n
I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
\nAnd he would stumble after,
\nBewildered by my laughter.
\nI should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes.
\nI would choose
\nTo lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
\nA bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover.
\nTill he caught me in the shade,
\nAnd the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
\nAching, melting, unafraid.
\nWith the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
\nAnd the plopping of the waterdrops,
\nAll about us in the open afternoon–
\nI am very like to swoon
\nWith the weight of this brocade,
\nFor the sun sifts through the shade.<\/p>\n
Underneath the fallen blossom
\nIn my bosom,
\nIs a letter I have hid.
\nIt was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
\n“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
\nDied in action Thursday se’nnight.”
\nAs I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
\nThe letters squirmed like snakes.
\n“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.
\n“No,” I told him.
\n“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
\nNo, no answer.”
\nAnd I walked into the garden,
\nUp and down the patterned paths,
\nIn my stiff, correct brocade.
\nThe blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
\nEach one.
\nI stood upright too,
\nHeld rigid to the pattern
\nBy the stiffness of my gown.
\nUp and down I walked,
\nUp and down.<\/p>\n
In a month he would have been my husband.
\nIn a month, here, underneath this lime,
\nWe would have broke the pattern;
\nHe for me, and I for him,
\nHe as Colonel, I as Lady,
\nOn this shady seat.
\nHe had a whim
\nThat sunlight carried blessing.
\nAnd I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”
\nNow he is dead.<\/p>\n
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
\nUp and down
\nThe patterned garden-paths
\nIn my stiff, brocaded gown.
\nThe squills and daffodils
\nWill give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
\nI shall go
\nUp and down
\nIn my gown.
\nGorgeously arrayed,
\nBoned and stayed.
\nAnd the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
\nBy each button, hook, and lace.
\nFor the man who should loose me is dead,
\nFighting with the Duke in Flanders,
\nIn a pattern called a war.
\nChrist! What are patterns for?<\/p>\n
–Amy Lowell (1874 – 1925), Patterns<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I walk down the garden-paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.…<\/span><\/p>\n