Come into the Garden, Maud
Maud; a Monodrama
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the rose is blown.
The evening was cool for summer, though in the air one could feel a warm easterly breeze that hinted at oncoming rain. The stars gleamed overhead even as the moon approached the descent of her orbit, retreating from a sky that would redden and gild with the morn. The low gate was curled with ivy, heavy moss-green ivy swollen with the summer heat and the summer dews. The clinking latch was lifted; the gate was pushed open and then close, the rusty hinges yielding slowly to his hooves.
How still it all was! How still, surrounded in this quiet cloister of greenery that was his own. Behind him, distantly, the warm light of lanterns of the house could be seen, momently flashing and flickering as ponies passed before them. Voices, too far away to be heard, were yet vividly imagined; laughter, sincere and unrestrained; many words, shared between husband and wife, between sister and sister, between parents and children all. Still he stood and waited, even as her promise whispered in his ears with the breeze and sweetened the heavy scent of the flowers that bloomed in their myriads beside the gate.
Roses blossomed all around; some closed, some open in the fullness of their richly layered petals. Some had burst forth in handsome crimson, but more bloomed in the quiet whiteness of the moon and the stars. So too, did the pale milk-blooms of the acacia that shaded one side of the garden. Here and there up-sprung the larkspurs in their purpling hues; here and there the lilies sighed and swayed into the breeze. All about him the garden breathed its soft sounds, its breathy music, and waited beside him beneath the night sky.
He felt warm, warmed more by the thought of her than by the night air. He had not seen her for many a month,- a year in fact,- not since she had left to see the world beyond, beyond her family’s little farm and his neighbouring little garden. She should have come back today, or so she had told him before she had left. He had remembered the date perfectly: indeed had tried not to remember it; had tried to bury it under work and tending to his garden in the hope that it would make the wait and the wondering all the less melancholy. He had missed her; still missed her.
The lights still burned brightly in the distance. He had not brought a lantern with him, but he had not needed it, in truth. He looked away from the lighted windows and up to the stars, as he had done many a night before. It was a cloudless night and far out in this quiet countryside, the full beauty of Luna’s artistry shone with singular radiance. He recognized the constellations, though he knew not their names. Neither had she when they had sat silently, close together, watching the many stars above and the rocky field before. He had often wondered in the days after she had left, if those same stars shone on her as well. He had wondered if she saw them in the same way, perhaps even thought of him in such a way. He had wondered if she had missed him as well.
In truth, he often found himself uncertain regarding her. She was a difficult person to read, oftentimes seeming indifferent to even the most startling of things. He had not courted her for long, perhaps for a year before she had left for the world, and he still had yet to truly know how she felt. When he had tentatively begun courting her, made his clumsy attentions clear to her, she had not rebuffed him. However, neither did she seem to much enjoy his affections. Her usual expressions only varied ever so slightly from indifference and he was hardly the most observant of ponies. Perhaps he was being too sensitive about it, but even the slightest confirmation of mutual affection would have been nice. She was so very difficult to read.
A sudden change in the distance, one of the lights had gone out. Then another, and another, until only two in the upper windows still shone. The party beneath had been concluded. Now it was time for bed. He watched, waiting. One of the lights disappeared. Finally, the last flickered out, leaving an inky blackness where the old farmhouse stood. All about the darkness sank into a sleepy gloom. The trees that ran along the margin of the farm gently yawned in the wind. In the garden, the flowers sighed. On another night, the fireflies might have been dancing in the breeze, playing laughing counterpoint to the slow movement of the stars above. On another night perhaps,- but not to-night.
He stood, lonely and alone. The breeze died down. The flowers, and the stems, and the grassy tufts, and the leaves of the slender acacia all ceased to rustle. Again he cast his eyes to the stars and wondered. Would she come? Would she at all remember his affections? Would she remember his promise to wait for her at the gate when she returned? Would such a promise, year-old and probably forgotten, be enough to bring her back to him? Would she return to his garden and make it once more theirs? Still he wondered. Still he waited. Still he stood, lonely and alone.
He had never been certain of her feelings, but of his own he had no doubt. He loved Maud and knew he loved her. The more time he had spent with her, the more he liked just being with her, whether it was listening to her talk about her most beloved subject and her poems, or just watching the constellations pass overhead in his garden. He looked forward to seeing her when they were apart. He enjoyed listening to her voice. He felt wonderfully warm in her company. He loved Maud; loved her with all his being, although he hardly knew if she herself knew of how deeply he loved her. O dove and dear! O life and fate! He named her the queen of his heart, of all that made him and of all that quiet world that was dear to him. Would that she could come back to him!
Still he waited. How long had it been since the dimming of the lights; an hour, two hours? He could not tell. He had lost count, lost in his thoughts of her and his doubts. He turned away from the gate, stepping into the sanctuary of the garden and its comforting darkness. He felt cold from the night air, still colder from his loneliness and his longing. Overhead, the stars were beginning to fade in the twilight. The moon was sinking towards its western margin. The dawn would soon be here and he,- he would be alone. No! He could not doubt her so; should never allow the shadow of doubt to touch her in his heart. She would come, surely. Surely, she would come.
His ears perked up. He heard the soft sound of hooves on the gravel path that passed by the gate. His breath hitched in his chest. The gentle warmth of her familiar scent touched upon his nose. He heard the lifting of the latch, the muted moan of rusty hinges; then silence.
“Maud,” he breathed, turning to the gate, “Maud.”
“I brought along Boulder,” her quiet monotone replied, filling the still air of the garden, “he said you might have missed me.”
He rushed forwards, sweeping her up in a tight embrace. Joy and relief strengthened his affection and he pressed kisses into her, again and again upon both her cheeks, again and again on her forehead, even as he held her, clung to her, felt her real warmth pressing back into him. He held her tightly to himself, his muzzle nuzzling her, nuzzling into her mane. His cold limbs and his cold fears all seemed to melt away as he gave his earnest and unconditional affections to the one he so loved. He would not, could not let her go, not for the moment. He had to know; had to show her that he had missed her so and that he would be hers always. He held her close to himself, as though it were the only way for him to know that she was truly here before him; here for him and him alone.
One of her grey hooves gently patted him on his back and he loosened his embrace, if ever so slightly. He turned to look at her and, for once, he could tell that she was smiling. She leaned forwards as did he, the two softly placing a chaste kiss on each other’s lips before pulling back to look at one another again. He smiled broadly, his emotions plain as the dawn and its daffodil sky. She smiled too, in her own quiet, reserved way that was so very her. They nuzzled into an embrace once more. They were all that mattered to each other in that moment. The garden with its lovely flowers and its quiet shade was the only world they needed; their secreted cloister from the world beyond; a hidden sanctuary that was theirs and there for them. They were alone and together, two ponies held lovingly in each other's embrace.
The sky began to redden from the deep purple of the night into the rose-gold of the morn. Ever so softly, he heard her murmur from over his shoulder as the first rays of the dawn slowly lit upon their garden.
“I missed you too.”
She is coming, my own, my sweet,
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
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My feels, where did all of my feels go.
4563355 Hopefully in a very happy place.
It is positively criminal that this has so many dislikes; I figure some people wouldn't know quality if you printed it on the underside of a sledgehammer and whacked them upside the nose with it, but why you would dislike something because of that eludes me. Anyway, this is probably the closest I've come to reading proper literature on Fimfiction, and for that, good Sir, you have both my thanks and my most sincere encouragement! Here's hoping there's plenty more of this, wherever it came from
4579898 You, sir/madame, have just made my day. Quite sincerely the nicest thing anyone's written about my work (what little there is, including several older stories on fanfiction.net).
I suspect the rather indifferent reception is due to two things.
Firstly, the subject matter: Victorian literature's never been particularly popular in this modern day.Tennyson in particular is not particularly highly regarded as he's very sentimental and practically establishment (as poet laureate for 42 years). Nowhere near as appealing as a rebel like Browning.
Secondly, my style. I actually write poetry more than I do prose, which you can see is reflected in my language, syntax and use of repetition. Most people find it terribly wordy, and probably would write 'tl;dr' if they were moved enough thereby to do so. Ah well.
Again, thank you so much for your very kind compliment. It certainly put a smile on my face!
4580260 While I hardly approve of the unprecedented nature of my humble comment here, I'm very glad it was to you liking!
You and I are in unquestionable agreement regarding the Victorians; we've certainly not seen the like of them since, though I do believe that if composition back then was as simple as bashing your fingertips against a keyboard as it is today, we might have observed slightly less of a literary peak spanning the lifetime of Britain's most illustrious Empress! From what precious little a classics guy like myself knows of poetry, I can only approve of your opinion of Tennyson; I myself have always been something of a Rossetti fan.
And regarding the disapproval, naturally, true poetry aficionados are thin on the ground online, but I'm still far from comprehending why it would elicit a little red marker intended to demonstrate, ironically enough, the absence of quality! While it is good that those of us who can actually appreciate a work like this one have the chance to enjoy it here, part of me hopes that you'll expand your efforts elsewhere Asmodaeus, perhaps to more of a broadly intellectual audience
Sadly enough, simple words of encouragement are far from guaranteed in just about any corner of the internet, and quality of an sort is far from a guarantee of recognition or approval. But, once again, I'm very glad that I could provide you with a couple such words here!
Absolutely beautiful.
This tab has been open for two months because I promised I would comment on it later, so here it is. I think I found is because we met on Omegle.
I read this on a boat in Venice. It had a style to it. Not many people can write like the old times or write in a different style. This achieved both anyways. And now I can close this tab and wait for a reply later.
4844760 It's very kind of you to say that this has a style. I very much admire the older literature and having someone say that something I've actually written seems faithful to the old times is actually very flattering!
As to Omegle... I'm quite sure that you must be thinking of someone else. I'm not much enamoured with chatting face-to-face with people online, so I think it would've been highly unikely that it was actually me you were speaking to.
4850336 No problem.
The Omegle chat was just text, no face-to-face. I don't have a camera for that. We were talking about fanfiction, and you sent me to this story.
4853116
Considering I've not the foggiest idea about how Omegle, I'm very sure it wasn't me. I am, however, very flattered that someone recommended you this story. Might it have been any of the other wonderful commentators here perhaps?
Awwww, this was so sweet, I love it!
You did such a wonderful job on this, and it really shows.
I approve of this, and it gets a favorite!
Nicely done, nicely done.
Keep it up!
6309736
That's very kind of you to say; thank you! I'm singularly glad you enjoyed it!
6310126 You're very welcome kind writer sir person ma'am thing :D
I loved it! And it is so worth a reread!
Keep it up!
Really well written.
This is skillfully done as far as style and descriptiveness. It is quite different from Tennyson's poem. It seems that by writing something clearly referring to "Maud", that the story is a comment on the poem--yet it is not; the text here jettisons the poem's dark themes of obsession and madness and provides instead a simple vignette without theme or paradox.