FANTAISIES DÉCORATIVES

I
LE PANNEAU

Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade
   There stands a little ivory girl,
   Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl
With pale green nails of polished jade.

The red leaves fall upon the mould,
   The white leaves flutter, one by one,
   Down to a blue bowl where the sun,
Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.

The white leaves float upon the air,
   The red leaves flutter idly down,
   Some fall upon her yellow gown,
And some upon her raven hair.

She takes an amber lute and sings,
   And as she sings a silver crane
   Begins his scarlet neck to strain,
And flap his burnished metal wings.

She takes a lute of amber bright,
   And from the thicket where he lies
   Her lover, with his almond eyes,
Watches her movements in delight.

And now she gives a cry of fear,
   And tiny tears begin to start:
   A thorn has wounded with its dart
The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.

And now she laughs a merry note:
   There has fallen a petal of the rose
   Just where the yellow satin shows
The blue-veined flower of her throat.

With pale green nails of polished jade,
   Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl,
   There stands a little ivory girl
Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade.

II
LES BALLONS

Against these turbid turquoise skies
   The light and luminous balloons
   Dip and drift like satin moons,
Drift like silken butterflies;

Reel with every windy gust,
   Rise and reel like dancing girls,
   Float like strange transparent pearls,
Fall and float like silver dust.

Now to the low leaves they cling,
   Each with coy fantastic pose,
   Each a petal of a rose
Straining at a gossamer string.

Then to the tall trees they climb,
   Like thin globes of amethyst,
   Wandering opals keeping tryst
With the rubies of the lime.

CANZONET

   I have no store
Of gryphon-guarded gold;
   Now, as before,
Bare is the shepherd’s fold.
   Rubies nor pearls
Have I to gem thy throat;
   Yet woodland girls
Have loved the shepherd’s note.

   Then pluck a reed
And bid me sing to thee,
   For I would feed
Thine ears with melody,
   Who art more fair
Than fairest fleur-de-lys,
   More sweet and rare
Than sweetest ambergris.

   What dost thou fear?
Young Hyacinth is slain,
   Pan is not here,
And will not come again.
   No hornèd Faun
Treads down the yellow leas,
   No God at dawn
Steals through the olive trees.

   Hylas is dead,
Nor will he e’er divine
   Those little red
Rose-petalled lips of thine.
   On the high hill
No ivory dryads play,
   Silver and still
Sinks the sad autumn day.

SYMPHONY IN YELLOW

An omnibus across the bridge
   Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
   And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.

Big barges full of yellow hay
   Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
   And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.

The yellow leaves begin to fade
   And flutter from the Temple elms,
   And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.

IN THE FOREST

Out of the mid-wood’s twilight
   Into the meadow’s dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
   Flashes my Faun!

He skips through the copses singing,
   And his shadow dances along,
And I know not which I should follow,
   Shadow or song!

O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
   O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness
   I track him in vain!

TO MY WIFE

WITH A COPY OF MY POEMS

I can write no stately proem
   As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
   I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals
   One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
   On your hair.

And when wind and winter harden
   All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
   You will understand.

WITH A COPY OF ‘A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES’

Go, little book,
To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,
Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:
And bid him look
Into thy pages: it may hap that he
May find that golden maidens dance through thee.

ROSES AND RUE

(To L. L.)

Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
   Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love’s song,
   We are parted too long.

Could the passionate past that is fled
   Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again,
   Were it worth the pain!

I remember we used to meet
   By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
   With the air of a bird;

And your voice had a quaver in it,
   Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird’s throat
   With its last big note;

And your eyes, they were green and grey
   Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
   When I stooped and kissed;

And your mouth, it would never smile
   For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
   Five minutes after.

You were always afraid of a shower,
   Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
   When the rain began.

I remember I never could catch you,
   For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,
   Little wings to your feet.

I remember your hair—did I tie it?
   For it always ran riot—
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:
   These things are old.

I remember so well the room,
   And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
   In the warm June rain;

And the colour of your gown,
   It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
   From your shoulders rose.

And the handkerchief of French lace
   Which you held to your face—
Had a small tear left a stain?
   Or was it the rain?

On your hand as it waved adieu
   There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
   Was a petulant cry,

‘You have only wasted your life.’
   (Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
   It was all too late.

Could we live it over again,
   Were it worth the pain,
Could the passionate past that is fled
   Call back its dead!

Well, if my heart must break,
   Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
   Poets’ hearts break so.

But strange that I was not told
   That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
   God’s heaven and hell.