Fancy and the Poet

Susanna Moodie

Poet—

Enchanting spirit!—at thy votive shrine

I lowly bend a simple wreath to twine;

O Come from the ideal world and fling

Thy airy fingers o’er my rugged string;

Sweep the dark chords of thought and give to earth

The thrilling song that tells thy heavenly birth—

Fancy—

Happiness when from earth she fled

I passed on her heavenward flight—

“Take this crown,” the spirit said

“Of heaven’s own golden light—

To the sons of sorrow the token give,

And bid them follow my steps and live!”—

I took the crown from the snowy hand,

It flashed like a living star;

I turned this dark earth to a fairy land

When I hither drive my car;

But I placed the crown round my tresses bright,

And man only saw its reflected light—

Many a lovely dream I’ve given,

And many a song divine;

But never!—oh never—that gift of heaven

Shall mortals temples twine—

Hope and love in the circlet glow!

’Tis all too bright for a world of woe—

Poet—

Hist—Beautiful spirit!—why silent so soon?

My ear drinks each word of thy magical tune;

My lyre owns thy touch—and its tremulous strings

Vibrate beneath the soft play of thy wings;

Resume thy sweet lay, and reveal, ere we part

Thy home lovely spirit—and say what thou art?”—

Fancy—

The gleam of a star thou cans’t not see—

Of an eye ’neath its sleeping lid,

The sound of a far off melody

The voice of a stream that’s hid;

Such must I still remain to thee

A wonder and a mystery!—

I live in the poet’s dream

I flash on the painter’s eye;

I dwell in the moon’s pale beam,

In the depths of the star lit sky;

I traverse the earth, the air, the main,

And bind young hearts in my magic chain—

I float on the fleecy cloud

My voice is in ev’ry breeze;

I speak in the tempest loud,

In the sigh of the waving trees—

To the sons of earth—in a mystic tone,

I tell of a world more bright than their own!—

412

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Snails by Francis Ponge

Unlike the ashes that make their home with hot coals, snails prefer moist earth. Go on: they advance while gluing themselves to it with their entire bodies. They carry it, they eat it, they shit it. They go through it, it goes through them. It’s the best kind of interpenetration, as between tones, one passive and one active. The passive bathes and nourishes the active, which overturns the other while it eats.

(There is more to be said about snails. First of all their immaculate clamminess. Their sangfroid. Their stretchiness.)

One can scarcely conceive of a snail outside its shell and unmoving. The moment it rests it sinks down deep into itself. In fact, its modesty obliges it to move as soon as it has shown its nakedness and  revealed its vulnerable shape. The moment it’s exposed, it moves on.

During periods of dryness they withdraw into ditches where it seems their bodies are enough to maintain their dampness. No doubt their neighbors there are toads and frogs and other ectothermic animals. But when they come out again they don’t move as quickly. You have to admire their willingness to go into the ditch, given how hard it is for them to come out again.

Note also that though snails like moist soil, they have no affection for places that are too wet such as marshes or ponds. Most assuredly they prefer firm earth, as long as it’s fertile and damp.

They are fond as well of moisture-rich vegetables and green leafy plants. They know how to feed on them leaving only the veins, cutting free the most tender leaves. They are hell on salads.

What are these beings from the depths of the ditches? Though snails love many of their trenches’ qualities they have every intention of leaving. They are in their element but they are also wanderers. And when they emerge into the daylight onto firm ground their shells will preserve their vagabond’s hauteur.

It must be a pain to have to haul that trailer around with them everywhere, but they never complain and in the end they are happy about it. How valuable, after all, to be able to go home any time, no matter where you may find yourself, eluding all intruders. It must be worth it.