第26章

Poem: Le Jardin Des TuileriesThis 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!

Poem: On The Sale By Auction Of Keats' Love LettersThese 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?

Poem: The New RemorseThe 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.

Poem: Le PanneauUnder 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.

Poem: Les BallonsAgainst 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.

Poem: CanzonetI 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 horned 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.

Poem: Symphony In YellowAn 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.

Poem: In The ForestOut 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!

Poem: To My Wife - With A Copy Of My PoemsI 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.

Poem: 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.

Poem: 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!