II
LA MER

A white mist drifts across the shrouds,
   A wild moon in this wintry sky
   Gleams like an angry lion’s eye
Out of a mane of tawny clouds.

The muffled steersman at the wheel
   Is but a shadow in the gloom;—
   And in the throbbing engine-room
Leap the long rods of polished steel.

The shattered storm has left its trace
   Upon this huge and heaving dome,
   For the thin threads of yellow foam
Float on the waves like ravelled lace.

UNDER THE BALCONY

O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!
   O moon with the brows of gold!
Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!
      And light for my love her way,
      Lest her little feet should stray
   On the windy hill and the wold!
O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!
   O moon with the brows of gold!

O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!
   O ship with the wet, white sail!
Put in, put in, to the port to me!
      For my love and I would go
      To the land where the daffodils blow
   In the heart of a violet dale!
O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!
   O ship with the wet, white sail!

O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!
   O bird that sits on the spray!
Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat!
      And my love in her little bed
      Will listen, and lift her head
   From the pillow, and come my way!
O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!
   O bird that sits on the spray!

O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!
   O blossom with lips of snow!
Come down, come down, for my love to wear!
      You will die on her head in a crown,
      You will die in a fold of her gown,
   To her little light heart you will go!
O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!
   O blossom with lips of snow!

THE HARLOT’S HOUSE

We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,

Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
‘The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.’

But she—she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.

LE JARDIN DES TUILERIES

This winter air is keen and cold,
   And keen and cold this winter sun,
   But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.

Sometimes about the painted kiosk
   The mimic soldiers strut and stride,
   Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
In the bleak tangles of the bosk.

And sometimes, while the old nurse cons
   Her book, they steal across the square,
   And launch their paper navies where
Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.

And now in mimic flight they flee,
   And now they rush, a boisterous band—
   And, tiny hand on tiny hand,
Climb up the black and leafless tree.

Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,
   And children climbed me, for their sake
   Though it be winter I would break
Into spring blossoms white and blue!

ON THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS’ LOVE LETTERS

These are the letters which Endymion wrote
   To one he loved in secret, and apart.
   And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
   The merchant’s price.  I think they love not art
   Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.

Is it not said that many years ago,
   In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
   With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw
   Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?

THE NEW REMORSE

The sin was mine; I did not understand.
   So now is music prisoned in her cave,
   Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
   Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,
   That hardly can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.

But who is this who cometh by the shore?
(Nay, love, look up and wonder!)  Who is this
   Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?
It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss
   The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,
And I shall weep and worship, as before.