“The Road to Avignon” is a beautiful poem by Amy Lowell, an American poet of the early 20th century. The poem is a vivid description of the French countryside, as seen through the eyes of the speaker as she travels on the road to Avignon.
The poem begins with a description of the landscape. The speaker tells us that the road to Avignon is “a ribbon of moonlight on the purple moor,” conjuring up a serene and mystical image. As she travels, she sees fields of lavender and olive trees, and the scent of wild herbs fills the air. The beauty of the landscape is overwhelming, and the speaker is struck by the way in which the colors and scents blend together.
As the speaker travels on, she encounters people on the road. She describes the peasant women who walk with baskets on their heads, and the children who play in the fields. She tells us that the people seem to be a part of the landscape, as though they have grown out of the earth itself.
The poem takes a turn in the final stanza, as the speaker describes her own thoughts and feelings. She tells us that the beauty of the landscape and the people she has encountered have left a deep impression on her. She feels as though she has been transformed by the journey, and that she has gained a new understanding of the world and of herself.
Overall, “The Road to Avignon” is a powerful poem that captures the beauty and mystery of the French countryside. Through vivid imagery and poignant language, Amy Lowell transports the reader to another time and place, and leaves us with a sense of awe and wonder.
The Road to Avignon
A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,
Blown by the bright wind, debonair;
Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,
Above on the terrace a turret door
Frames a lady, listless and wan,
But fair for the eye to rest upon.
The minstrel plucks at his silver strings,
And looking up to the lady, sings: —
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
The octagon tower casts a shade
Cool and gray like a cutlass blade;
In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,
The little green lizards run out and in.
A sail dips over the ocean’s rim,
And bubbles rise to the fountain’s brim.
The minstrel touches his silver strings,
And gazing up to the lady, sings: —
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
Slowly she walks to the balustrade,
Idly notes how the blossoms fade
In the sun’s caress; then crosses where
The shadow shelters a carven chair.
Within its curve, supine she lies,
And wearily closes her tired eyes.
The minstrel beseeches his silver strings,
And holding the lady spellbound, sings: —
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
Clouds sail over the distant trees,
Petals are shaken down by the breeze,
They fall on the terrace tiles like snow;
The sighing of waves sounds, far below.
A humming-bird kisses the lips of a rose
Then laden with honey and love he goes.
The minstrel woos with his silver strings,
And climbing up to the lady, sings: —
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
Step by step, and he comes to her,
Fearful lest she suddenly stir.
Sunshine and silence, and each to each,
The lute and his singing their only speech;
He leans above her, her eyes unclose,
The humming-bird enters another rose.
The minstrel hushes his silver strings.
Hark! The beating of humming-birds’ wings!
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
