About the poet
Derek Walcott was a renowned poet, playwright, and essayist from Saint Lucia, a small Caribbean island. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature.Much of Walcott’s work examines the complexities of being Caribbean, particularly in the post-colonial context. He often addresses the tension between European influences and the indigenous and African roots of the Caribbean.
Line by line analysis
though our longest sun sets at right declensions and makes but winter arches, it cannot be long before we lie down in darkness, and have our light in ashes. . . Browne, Urn Burial Stones only, the disjecta membra of this Great House, Whose moth-like girls are mixed with candledust, Remain to file the lizard's dragonish claws.
The poem is set in the ruins of an old mansion on a lime plantation in the Caribbean during the colonial era. The speaker walks through the estate, reflecting on its decay and linking it to the violent and oppressive imperialist history of the region. It begins with an epitaph, quoting Thomas Browne’s Urn Burial, which highlights the relentless passage of time—how even in summer, winter is approaching. The poem explores themes of history, colonialism, literature, and the corruption of power, focusing on the era when the British colonized much of the Caribbean during the 17th to 19th centuries. These colonizers established plantations where enslaved Black people were forced to work and endured horrific cruelty. The poem begins by describing the ruins of the colonial house, where even the stones are crumbling. The dust covering statues of once-beautiful women who lived and worked there reflects the decay. The phrase “lizard’s dragonish claws” symbolizes sharp, wild marks left by nature, emphasizing how time and the natural world have reclaimed the space.
The mouths of those gate cherubs shriek with stain; Axle and coach wheel silted under the muck Of cattle droppings. Three crows flap for the trees And settle, creaking the eucalyptus boughs. A smell of dead limes quickens in the nose The leprosy of empire. ‘Farewell, green fields, Farewell, ye happy groves!' Marble like Greece, like Faulkner's South in stone, Deciduous beauty prospered and is gone, But where the lawn breaks in a rash of trees A spade below dead leaves will ring the bone Of some dead animal or human thing Fallen from evil days, from evil times.
The estate is now abandoned and in ruins. The “gate cherubs,” once beautiful decorations, are stained and appear as though they are crying. The remains of old carriages are partially buried in mud and cow dung. Nearby, three black crows sit in trees, symbolizing death and decay. The mention of dead lime trees and leprosy adds to the sense of everything falling apart. The ruined marble of the house reminds the speaker of similar ruins in ancient Greece or the old American South, as described by authors like Faulkner. This beauty is described in autumnal terms, signifying that it is fading and nearing its end. Long ago, trees and plants flourished in the soil around the house, but now most have withered and died. The speaker notices a spade buried beneath a tangle of trees at the edge of the mansion’s lawn. He imagines it might have been used to dig up or bury something—possibly an animal or even a person who died during the violent and cruel era of colonization, referred to as the “evil days.”
It seems that the original crops were limes Grown in that silt that clogs the river's skirt; The imperious rakes are gone, their bright girls gone, The river flows, obliterating hurt. I climbed a wall with the grille ironwork Of exiled craftsmen protecting that great house From guilt, perhaps, but not from the worm's rent Nor from the padded calvary of the mouse.
The speaker reflects that the dead lime trees were likely the plantation’s main crop, grown in the fertile silt along the riverbank. The proud and self-indulgent Englishmen who once ran the estate and enjoyed a carefree life with women are now long gone. The river has washed away their memory, along with the pain they caused. As the speaker continues to explore, they climb up some ironwork on a wall and think about the craftsman—likely an exiled worker—who forged the iron to protect the grand house. However, this protection seems to have guarded the estate only from guilt, not from the forces of decay, as worms, mice, and time have slowly destroyed the once-great mansion.
And when a wind shook in the limes I heard What Kipling heard, the death of a great empire, the abuse Of ignorance by Bible and by sword. A green lawn, broken by low walls of stone, Dipped to the rivulet, and pacing, I thought next Of men like Hawkins, Walter Raleigh, Drake, Ancestral murderers and poets, more perplexed In memory now by every ulcerous crime. The world's green age then was rotting lime Whose stench became the charnel galleon's text.
The speaker recalls hearing the metaphorical fall of the empire, much like Rudyard Kipling once did, symbolized by the wind blowing through the lime trees. This sound represents the suffering caused by the colonizers. As the speaker explores the grounds, including a large lawn broken by stone walls sloping towards the river, they reflect on prominent English historical figures. They consider the “sea dogs” of the Elizabethan era, such as John Hawkins and Francis Drake, who were both explorers and participants in the brutal slave trade, as well as Walter Raleigh, who was both a pirate and a poet. The speaker is disturbed by the paradox that the same nation responsible for immense cruelty through colonization and slavery also produced great art and literature. This contradiction between England’s cultural achievements and its immoral actions leaves the speaker deeply unsettled.
The rot remains with us, the men are gone. But, as dead ash is lifted in a wind That fans the blackening ember of the mind, My eyes burned from the ashen prose of Donne. Ablaze with rage I thought, Some slave is rotting in this manorial lake, But still the coal of my compassion fought That Albion too was once A colony like ours, ‘part of the continent, piece of the main', Nook-shotten, rook o'erblown, deranged By foaming channels and the vain expense Of bitter faction. All in compassion ends So differently from what the heart arranged: ‘as well as if a manor of thy friend's. . . ‘
Although the men from the colonial era are long gone, their legacy of cruelty and exploitation still lingers. The speaker imagines the wind carrying away these dark thoughts, like ash, as he tries to reconcile England’s beautiful literature with its history of evil deeds. His mind shifts to the poet John Donne, whose work fuels his anger. He recalls that “Albion,” the ancient name for England, was once colonized by the Roman Empire. Reflecting on Shakespeare’s descriptions of England’s geography, he sees hints of its vulnerability and past suffering under foreign rule. This realization softens the speaker’s anger, as he begins to understand that even powerful colonizers were once victims of oppression themselves. He now views the crumbling mansion not only as a symbol of colonial brutality but also as the decaying home of a forgotten, distant friend. The poem ends with a profound message: it is not hatred or bitterness that can heal the wounds of history, but understanding and empathy.