Douglas Goldring
ITo come so soon to this imagined dark—More velvet-deep than any midnight park!Palaces hem me in, with blind black walls;The water is hushed for a voice that never calls.My gondolier sways silently over his oar.IIAt St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear,Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land,From Provence to Paris—never fear—All the heart can feel will understand.A small town, a white town,A town for you and me—With aCafé Glacierin the square,And schooners at the quay;And theterrasseof a small hotelThat looks upon the sea!There gay sounds and sweet soundsAnd sounds of peace come through:The cook sings in the kitchen,The pink-foot ring-doves coo,And Julien brings the PernodsThat are bad for me and you.At St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear,Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land,From Provence to Paris—never fear—All the heart can feel will understand.IIIWaves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea;A pale light on the horizon lingers and shines,That might shine round the Graal: and weStand very silent, underneath the pines.O swift expresses for the spirit’s flight!Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know,Looking roguishly back, and flying forward—soI follow, flashing after. Blessed night!IVDo you remember, have you been these ways,Dreaming or waking, after sunny days;Sailed, in a moment, to imagined lands—With one to love you, holding both your hands—To old hot countries where the warm grape clings,And an old, musical language strikes the earLike a caress, most exquisite to hear—Your soul the voyager and your heart her wings?
ITo come so soon to this imagined dark—More velvet-deep than any midnight park!Palaces hem me in, with blind black walls;The water is hushed for a voice that never calls.My gondolier sways silently over his oar.IIAt St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear,Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land,From Provence to Paris—never fear—All the heart can feel will understand.A small town, a white town,A town for you and me—With aCafé Glacierin the square,And schooners at the quay;And theterrasseof a small hotelThat looks upon the sea!There gay sounds and sweet soundsAnd sounds of peace come through:The cook sings in the kitchen,The pink-foot ring-doves coo,And Julien brings the PernodsThat are bad for me and you.At St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear,Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land,From Provence to Paris—never fear—All the heart can feel will understand.IIIWaves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea;A pale light on the horizon lingers and shines,That might shine round the Graal: and weStand very silent, underneath the pines.O swift expresses for the spirit’s flight!Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know,Looking roguishly back, and flying forward—soI follow, flashing after. Blessed night!IVDo you remember, have you been these ways,Dreaming or waking, after sunny days;Sailed, in a moment, to imagined lands—With one to love you, holding both your hands—To old hot countries where the warm grape clings,And an old, musical language strikes the earLike a caress, most exquisite to hear—Your soul the voyager and your heart her wings?
I
I
To come so soon to this imagined dark—More velvet-deep than any midnight park!Palaces hem me in, with blind black walls;The water is hushed for a voice that never calls.My gondolier sways silently over his oar.
To come so soon to this imagined dark—
More velvet-deep than any midnight park!
Palaces hem me in, with blind black walls;
The water is hushed for a voice that never calls.
My gondolier sways silently over his oar.
II
II
At St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear,Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land,From Provence to Paris—never fear—All the heart can feel will understand.
At St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear,
Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land,
From Provence to Paris—never fear—
All the heart can feel will understand.
A small town, a white town,A town for you and me—With aCafé Glacierin the square,And schooners at the quay;And theterrasseof a small hotelThat looks upon the sea!There gay sounds and sweet soundsAnd sounds of peace come through:The cook sings in the kitchen,The pink-foot ring-doves coo,And Julien brings the PernodsThat are bad for me and you.
A small town, a white town,
A town for you and me—
With aCafé Glacierin the square,
And schooners at the quay;
And theterrasseof a small hotel
That looks upon the sea!
There gay sounds and sweet sounds
And sounds of peace come through:
The cook sings in the kitchen,
The pink-foot ring-doves coo,
And Julien brings the Pernods
That are bad for me and you.
At St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear,Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land,From Provence to Paris—never fear—All the heart can feel will understand.
At St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear,
Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land,
From Provence to Paris—never fear—
All the heart can feel will understand.
III
III
Waves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea;A pale light on the horizon lingers and shines,That might shine round the Graal: and weStand very silent, underneath the pines.
Waves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea;
A pale light on the horizon lingers and shines,
That might shine round the Graal: and we
Stand very silent, underneath the pines.
O swift expresses for the spirit’s flight!Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know,Looking roguishly back, and flying forward—soI follow, flashing after. Blessed night!
O swift expresses for the spirit’s flight!
Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know,
Looking roguishly back, and flying forward—so
I follow, flashing after. Blessed night!
IV
IV
Do you remember, have you been these ways,Dreaming or waking, after sunny days;Sailed, in a moment, to imagined lands—With one to love you, holding both your hands—To old hot countries where the warm grape clings,And an old, musical language strikes the earLike a caress, most exquisite to hear—Your soul the voyager and your heart her wings?
Do you remember, have you been these ways,
Dreaming or waking, after sunny days;
Sailed, in a moment, to imagined lands—
With one to love you, holding both your hands—
To old hot countries where the warm grape clings,
And an old, musical language strikes the ear
Like a caress, most exquisite to hear—
Your soul the voyager and your heart her wings?