Free Collected Poems by William Alexander Percy Page B

Samaria.
    Crush Thou, O God, the petalled crimson of my life,
                   So Thou but mold the remnant clay
                             To shape not all unworthy of the Thee in me.

PART II
IN APRIL ONCE, AND OTHER POEMS
I
SICILIANA

Regretting that anything which bears his name should not be lovelier, but knowing that with him there would be no regret to find it here inscribed, I dedicate this poem of which we spoke so often to Major
W ILLIAM S INKLER M ANNING .
It was given him to die as only the best deserve, gloriously, in battle, leading his troops in the attack on Hill 378, November the sixth, 1918. Life, as we know it, lost a lover of all that was beautiful and right, and I, my dear friend.
IN APRIL ONCE

    T HE YEAR A.D. 1220 ;
a castle near Florence. A court on top of one of the bastions. To the right, a crenelated parapet over which a glimpse is had of an April landscape — hills, poplars, deep yellow sunlight. Fifty feet below, unseen, runs the road between Florence and the north. At the back, the walls of the castle and a wide doorway leading into the interior.
    During the action, late afternoon changes to sunset, sunset to twilight, and at the end it is almost dark.
    As the scene opens, the sound of retreating horses’ hoofs is heard.
D AVID
is standing on the parapet watching. He is twenty-two, strongly built, blond, with blue, wide-set eyes and sullen, brooding expression, simply dressed, with coat of mail and sword. He whistles and
G UIDO ’
s
head appears at a window.
    G UIDO
is of the same age, a trifle taller and more slender, very dark, beautiful, full of high spirits and humorous gusto. His dark eyes are vivid and changing. He is elegantly dressed as a courtier.
    D AVID
throws him a rope with a rope ladder attached
. G UIDO
fastens it and descends to the court
.
    G UIDO     (
as he descends
). Thou are the knightliest jailer that ever stood
        Betwixt light heart and the free world. Were I
        The Emperor, thou shouldst be seneschal
        Of my Sicilian Joyous Guard, instead
        Of jailer and henchman to the Florentines.
        There lie the fragrant spaces, the glistening air,
        The very troubadour and gypsy time o’ year;
        And here am I, hindered and snared, mewed up,
        Because, forsooth, I sing the Emperor’s songs,
        Set off his colors, bear his pleasantries
        To some adorèd lady of Provence,
        To which your gross and choleric Florentines
        Attach significance and secret import.
        Jailer, the very spring hath need of me,
        And that sweet southward-wending road
        Would fringe itself, I swear, with gayer tulips
        Were I but lilting to its guidance south.
        Couldn’t you let me out, David?
    D AVID .    No, I could not.
    G UIDO .    If I should wheedle you; if I should be
        The very most delightfulest young squire
        And love you as my heart’s most boon companion?
        Say, you slept and dreamed of good Saint Peter,
        What harm, if, when you woke, your keys were gone,
        By chance or miracle — or merely me?
    D AVID .    Were you Lord Jesus I’d not let you out.
    G UIDO .    I do almost surmise, somehow, I’m still
        This prison’s darling guest, and like to be
        A many a month. Jesu, what waste, what waste!
    D AVID .    O can’t you see? I must not let you go!
        The Florentines to me are nothing,
        But I made oath to serve them faithfully
        And they believed me.
    G UIDO .    Indeed, I do see, David.
        Why, if you should accede to my keen urgence,
        I would not go …
        At least, I think I would not go, perhaps.
    D AVID .    But, truly, are you so unhappy here?
    G UIDO .    In prison! and not most wretched! … How can you ask?
        Yet now I come to think of it … David,
        That is the loveliest window in my