# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Rhyme (Amédée Pommier)

RHYME.
TO LAURENT-PICHAT.
AMÉDÉE POMMIER.
Rhyme's the tiniest humming-bird Startled at any sound that's heard, It flies away, and on my word Seems subject to vertigo; But you may make the wild thing tame, And prompt obedience from it claim, If Molière should be your name, Or you be Victor Hugo.
As a prisoner left alone, Upon his own resources thrown, In a dungeon dank of stone, Easy finds it to entice Upon his shoulder, lap or hand, Thanks to forced leisure, patience planned, Spider or lizard, and command Out to peer the timid mice,
So by long effort, time and will, Is obtained at last the skill With confidence and trust to fill Rhyme, the bird so shy before;
And if at first it oft is missed, 'Tis mastered soon, and on the wrist Secured with filmy horse-hair twist! Rhymes in print can fly no more.
I've done this frivolous work of old For my favourite prized as gold, Though sometimes when most firm my hold Sudden it darts and flies away; But then through window open wide, Swift from roofs where sparrows hide, Sudden again 'tis at my side, Repentant to have gone astray.
Rarely does it long rebel, Soon as my lips pronounce the spell 'Come my beauty, all is well,' Down it flutters at my voice, And exempt from every fear, Sweet and gentle, perches near, On my finger hops, or clear Sings a song that bids rejoice.
Rhymes of every shape and kind Come upon each passing wind, Through the door or half-shut blind, Soft, soft and softer drumming; One might say legerdemain When they thus upon me rain, Giddy, giddy feels my brain But to hear them humming.
What a swarm! And more, and more, Hornets that above me soar,
Gay butterflies the girls adore, And wasps with waists that taper; None escape my watchful sight, I arrest them in their flight, Sudden and sharp them down I smite, And fix them on my paper.
My songs and merry roundelays And ballads with them are ablaze! As I arrange them in all ways How prettily they glitter! Now in long collars are they set, And now they dance a pirouette, Like waves or coryphées coquette, And like the finches twitter.
All obstacles, no matter what, Must yield before the acrobat; And I am that and only that, No poet great or gifted. But I can rhymes with ease coerce, And verse precipitate on verse, Like balls that cross, unite, disperse, By jugglers deftly shifted.
Look at my chariot and my team! When on these steeds the sun-rays gleam, Apollo's own they almost seem, And well may critics wonder! I love their long, long rapid strides, Their tossing manes, their glossy sides! Away! Their speed the winds deride When slack-reined on they thunder!
O Rhyme, no bounds thy magic knows! And when at tournaments with prose Thou joustest, human words disclose All their latent mysteries; 'Tis thou that mak'st all things to shine, Spread table, tankard, fruit and wine, Man's face that shadows the divine, And woman's lustrous eyes!
Thou limnest the acanthus leaves Of graceful curves, the wheaten sheaves, And vine-sprays plucked in autumn eves Which the wild Bacchantes wear, And carvest as no goldsmith can The cloven-footed hairy Pan, On sides of brimming cups that man Rightly deems the charm for care.
Thou wakest up the merry din Of fiddle and of violin, Until the organ swelling, win The heart to loftier melodies, Thou lendest life to hautboy shrill, And tourterelle with dove-like trill; O hark! that treble weeping still! Thou givest it these sympathies.
Thanks to thee, the poet's song The cannon's thunder can prolong, And give the glave that rights the wrong A lightning fiercely glancing; Thou mak'st the axe more sharp and fell, The buckler round more proudly swell, And tall plumes wave 'mid shot and shell On warriors proudly prancing!
O Rhyme, where wit contends with wit Be thou my sword, to guard and hit! My mistress too, when times are fit! In ocean waves my galley. My temple, altar, idol, priest, The thing beloved in West and East, Whate'er it be, till life hath ceased, And Death made up his tally.