A Shepherd-Boy

    Image: Titian (or Giorgione), A Boy with a Pipe (‘The Shepherd') (c. 1510). Oil on canvas. 62.4 x 49.2 cm. King’s Closet, Windsor Castle. https://www.royalcollection.org.uk/collection/405767/a-boy-with-a-pipe-the-shepherd , 22 September 2015.

    Giorgione

    Hampton Court


    A RADIANT, oval face : the hair
    About the cheeks so blond in hue
    It shades to greenness here and there
    Against the ground of densest blue
    A cloak flax-grey, a shirt of white,
    That yellow spots of sunshine fleck ;
    The face aglow with southern light,
    Deep, golden sunbrown on the neck ;
    Warm eyes, sweet mouth of the softest lips :
    Yea, though he is not playing, 
    His hand a flute Pandean grips,
    Across one hole a finger laying. 

    His flesh a golden haze, the line 
    Of cheek and chin is only made 
    By modulation, perfect, fine,
    Of their rich colour into shade. 
    His curls have sometime veiled the top 
    Of the wide forehead,—we can see 
    How where the sunbeams might not stop
    A subtle whiteness stretches, free 
    From the swarthy burning of their love :
    The opened shirt exposes
    Fair skin that meets the stain above 
    Half-coyly with its white and roses. 

    Not merely does he bear the sun 
    Thus visible on limb and head,
    His countenance reveals him one 
    Of those whose characters are fed 
    By light—the largeness of its ways,
    The breadth and patience in its joy.
    Evenings of sober azure, days 
    Of heat have influenced the lone boy 
    To dream with never a haunting thought,
    To be too calm for gladness
    And in the hill-groves to have caught 
    Hints of intensest summer sadness.

    Yet pain can never overcast
    A soul thus solemnly subdued 
    To muse upon an open past 
    Of sunshine, love and solitude.
    Maternal nature and his own 
    Secluded mother are the sole 
    Companions he has ever known ; 
    His earliest innocence is whole : 
    His mouth, attuned to the silvan breeze,
    Is mobile with the blowing 
    Of notes beneath the olive-trees 
    Or where an upland source is flowing.

    Ah, Golden Age, time has run back 
    And fetched you for our eyes to greet 
    And set you to repair our lack 
    Of splendour that is truly sweet, 
    By showing us how life can rear 
    Its children to enjoying sense
    Of all that visits eye and ear, 
    Through days of restful reticence.
    Delight will never be slow to come
    To youth that lays its finger
    On the flute's stop and yet is dumb 
    And loves with its dumb self to linger.

     

    Giorgione

    Hampton Court


    A RADIANT, oval face : the hair
    About the cheeks so blond in hue
    It shades to greenness here and there
    Against the ground of densest blue
    A cloak flax-grey, a shirt of white,
    That yellow spots of sunshine fleck ;
    The face aglow with southern light,
    Deep, golden sunbrown on the neck ;
    Warm eyes, sweet mouth of the softest lips :
    Yea, though he is not playing, 
    His hand a flute Pandean grips,
    Across one hole a finger laying. 

    His flesh a golden haze, the line 
    Of cheek and chin is only made 
    By modulation, perfect, fine,
    Of their rich colour into shade. 
    His curls have sometime veiled the top 
    Of the wide forehead,—we can see 
    How where the sunbeams might not stop
    A subtle whiteness stretches, free 
    From the swarthy burning of their love :
    The opened shirt exposes
    Fair skin that meets the stain above 
    Half-coyly with its white and roses. 

    Not merely does he bear the sun 
    Thus visible on limb and head,
    His countenance reveals him one 
    Of those whose characters are fed 
    By light—the largeness of its ways,
    The breadth and patience in its joy.
    Evenings of sober azure, days 
    Of heat have influenced the lone boy 
    To dream with never a haunting thought,
    To be too calm for gladness
    And in the hill-groves to have caught 
    Hints of intensest summer sadness.

    Yet pain can never overcast
    A soul thus solemnly subdued 
    To muse upon an open past 
    Of sunshine, love and solitude.
    Maternal nature and his own 
    Secluded mother are the sole 
    Companions he has ever known ; 
    His earliest innocence is whole : 
    His mouth, attuned to the silvan breeze,
    Is mobile with the blowing 
    Of notes beneath the olive-trees 
    Or where an upland source is flowing.

    Ah, Golden Age, time has run back 
    And fetched you for our eyes to greet 
    And set you to repair our lack 
    Of splendour that is truly sweet, 
    By showing us how life can rear 
    Its children to enjoying sense
    Of all that visits eye and ear, 
    Through days of restful reticence.
    Delight will never be slow to come
    To youth that lays its finger
    On the flute's stop and yet is dumb 
    And loves with its dumb self to linger.