Constantinople - Leblebidji*

    I know so well the busy cries
    That echo through the quarter
    Till daylight into evening dies
    And stars shine in the water,
    So dear they have become to me,
    Leblebidji! leblebidji!

    On peaceful English country nights
    Their rapid gay succession
    And all the sea-reflected lights
    Will pass from my possession,
    But never from my memory,
    Leblebidji! leblebidji!

    Past English evening scents and sounds,
    Past English church-bells ringing,
    The Turkish watchman on his rounds,
    The Turkish pedlar singing
    Through narrow streets above the sea
    "Leblebidji! leblebidji,"

    Will surely pierce a ghostly way,
    The music underlying,
    And in the shades of falling day
    As in the distance dying,
    A little call will come to me,
    "Leblebidji!" ...

* Little white beans

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

Victoria Mary Sackville-West, commonly known as Vita Sackville-West, was an English author and poet, renowned for her prolific writing and her association with the Bloomsbury Group. She achieved great success with her novels and significant acclaim for her poetry, particularly in the early 20th century. In addition to her literary pursuits, Sackville-West was also known for her creation of the gardens at Sissinghurst Castle, which remain celebrated to this day.

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English

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Constantinople - Dhji-Han-Ghir. For H.N.

    For years it had been neglected,
    This wilderness garden of ours,
    And its ruin had shone reflected
    In its pools through abandoned hours.
    For none had cared for its beauty
    Till we came, the strangers, the Giaours,
    And none had thought of a duty
    Towards its squandering flowers.

    Of broken wells and fountains
    There were half a dozen or more,
    And, beyond the sea, the mountains
    Of that far Bithynian shore
    Were blue in the purple distance
    And white was the cap they wore,
    And never in our existence
    Had life seemed brighter before!

    And the fruit-trees grew in profusion,
    Quince and pomegranate and wine,
    And the roses in rich confusion
    With the lilac intertwine,

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

Constantinople - The Greek Han

    A sunny court with wooden balconies,
    And wool hung out to dry in gaudy skeins,
    A fountain, and some pigeons murmuringly
    Picking up yellow grains.

    Pass through a little tumble-down green door
    Into the dark and crowded shop; the Turk
    Crouching above the brasier, smiles and nods;
    'Tis all his daily work.

    Here marble heads and alabaster jars,
    Fragments of porphyry and Persian tiles,
    Lie heaped in ruin, and at our dismay
    The old Turk shrugs and smiles,

    And sips his coffee, reaching out a hand
    To throw upon the brasier at his feet
    A handful of dried herbs, whose sudden smoke
    Rises up incense-sweet.

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

Constantinople - Retour En Songe

    After a dream-dim voyage
    We came with sails all set
    Towards the city of the sea,
    And it was wonderful to me
    To find her reigning yet.

    Oh beauty that my eyes and heart
    Had feasted on before!
    The evening mosques were brushed with gold,
    The water lapped a lazy fold
    Upon that lovely shore;

    The gardens of her terraced hills
    Rose up above the port,
    And little houses half concealed
    The presence of a light revealed,
    And here my journey's end was sealed,
    And I reached the home I sought.

    Those windows I had opened wide
    To welcome in the sun!
    Those stairs that only happy feet
    Had measured with their running beat!
    That well-remembered winding street!

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

Moonlight On The Bosphorus.

("La lune était sereine.")

[X., September, 1828.]


Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave;
At the cool casement, to the evening breeze flung wide,
Leans the Sultana, and delights to watch the tide,
With surge of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets lave.

From her hand, as it falls, vibrates the light guitar.
She listens - hark! that sound that echoes dull and low.
Is it the beat upon the Archipelago
Of some long galley's oar, from Scio bound afar?

Is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by one,
Cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in liquid pearls?
Is it some hovering sprite with whistling scream that hurls
Down to the deep from yon old tower a loosened stone?

Who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio?

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The Turkish Captive.

("Si je n'était captive.")

[IX., July, 1828.]


Oh! were I not a captive,
I should love this fair countree;
Those fields with maize abounding,
This ever-plaintive sea:
I'd love those stars unnumbered,
If, passing in the shade,
Beneath our walls I saw not
The spahi's sparkling blade.

I am no Tartar maiden
That a blackamoor of price
Should tune my lute and hold to me
My glass of sherbet-ice.
Far from these haunts of vices,
In my dear countree, we
With sweethearts in the even
May chat and wander free.

But still I love this climate,
Where never wintry breeze
Invades, with chilly murmur,
These open lattices;
Where rain is warm in summer,
And the insect glossy green,
Most like a living emeral...

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Morning In Constantinople

    She has an early morning of her own,
    A blending of the mist and sea and sun
    Into an undistinguishable one,
    And Saint Sophia, from her lordly throne

    Rises above the opalescent cloud,
    A shadowy dome and soaring minaret
    Visable though the base be hidden yet
    Beneath the veiling wreaths of milky shroud,

    As some dark Turkish beauty haughtily
    Glances above the yashmak's snowy fold.
    Beyond Stamboul's long stretch, a bar of gold
    Falls from the sun across the distant sea.

Victoria Mary Sackville-West