Londen 7 Augustus 1873

Waarde vrienden,

het was eene zeer aangename verrassing voor mij toen ik Caroliens brief ontving. Dank er voor.─

De eerste maandag in Aug. is hier een holy day.6 Toen ben ik met een van de Duitschers naar Dulwich anderhalf uur buiten L. geweest om het museum daar te gaan zien,7 & daarna zijn wij nog naar een dorp zoowat een uur verder gewandeld.─ Het land is hier zoo mooi; vele menschen die in L. hunne zaken hebben, wonen in een of ander dorp buiten L; & komen iederen dag per spoor naar de stad. misschien doe ik dat  1v:3 spoedig ook, als ik ergens goedkoop eene kamer vinden kan. Maar verhuizen vind ik zoo iets vreesselijks, dat ik zoo lang mogelijk hier blijf, hoewel alles hier niet zoo mooi is als ’t mij aanvankelijk toescheen. Misschien ligt het aan mij & ik zie het dus nog maar eenigen tijd aan.─

Yours truly

Vincent

Verblijd mij spoedig met een brief als ge tijd kunt vinden.

The eve of Saint Mark12

(Unfinished)

Upon a Sabbath day it fell;

Twice holy was the Sabbath bell,

That called the folk to evening prayer;

The city streets were clear & fair

From wholesome drench of April rains;

And, on the western window panes,

The chilly sunset faintly told

Of unmatured green, vallies cold,

Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,

Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,

Of primroses by shelter’d rills,

Of daisies on the aguish hills.─

Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:

The silent streets were crowded well

With staid & pious companies,

Warm from their fire-side orat’ries;

And moving, with demurest air

To even-song, & vesper prayer.─

Each arched porch, & entry low,

Was fill’d with patient folk & slow,

With whispers hush & shuffling feet,

While played the organ, loud & sweet.─

The bells had ceased, the prayers begun,

And Bertha had not yet half done

A curious volume, patch’d & torn,

That all day long, from earliest morn,

Had taken captive her two eyes,

Among its golden broideries;

Perplexed her with a thousand things,

The stars of Heaven, & angels’ wings,

Martyrs in a fiery blaze,

Azure saints & silver rays

Moses’ breastplate, & the seven

Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,

The winged lion of Saint Mark,

And the covenantal Ark,

With its many mysteries

Cherubim & golden mice.─

Bertha was a maiden fair,

Dwelling in th’old minster-square;

From her fireside she could see,

Sidelong, its rich antiquity,

Far as the Bishops gardenwall;

Where sycamores & elm trees tall,

Full leaved, the forest had outstript,

By no sharp north wind ever nipt,

So shelter’d by the mighty pile,

Bertha arose & read awhile,

With forehead ’gainst the window pane.

Again she tried & tried again,

Until the dusk eve left her dark

Upon the legend of St Mark.

From plaited lawn-frill, fine & thin,

She lifted up her soft warm chin,

With aching neck & swimming eyes

And dazed with saintly imag’ries.

All was gloom, & silent all

Save now & then the still foot-fall

Of one returning homewards late,

Past the echoing minster-gate.

The clamorous daws, that all the day

Above tree tops & towers play,

Pair by pair had gone to rest,

Each in its ancient belfry-nest,

Where asleep they fall betimes

To music & the drowsy chimes.

All was silent, all was gloom,

Abroad & in the homely room:

Down she sat, poor cheated soul!

And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;

Leaned forward, with bright drooping hair,

And slant book, full against the glare.

Her shadow, in uneasy guise,

Hover’d about, a giant size,

On ceiling beam & old oak chair,

The parrot’s cage, & panel square;

And the warm angled winter-screen,

On which were many monsters seen,

Call’d doves of Siam, Lima mice,

And legless birds of Paradise,

Macaw, & tender Av’davat,

And silken-furr’d Angora cat.

Untired she read, her shadow still

Glower’d about, as it would fill

The room with wildest forms & shades,

As though some ghostly queen of spades

Had come to mock behind her back

And dance, & ruffle her garments black.

Untired she read the legend page,

Of holy Mark, from youth to age,

On land, on sea, in pagan chains,

Rejoicing for his many pains.

Sometimes the learned eremite,

With golden star, or dagger bright,

Referr’d to pious poesies

Written in smallest crow-quill size

Beneath the text; & thus the rhyme

Was parcell’d out from time to time:

....................................

....................................

The imagination may be compared to Adam’s dream; “he awoke & found it truth.”─13

Season of mist, & mellow fruitfulness!

Close bosom-friend to the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load & bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, & plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,─

For summer has o’erbrimm’d their clammy cells.─

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft.

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; & now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.─