VISERENADE

HOUSES red as flower of bean,Flickering leaves and shadows lean!Pantalone, like a parrot,Sat and grumbled in the garret,Sat and growled and grumbled tillMoon upon the window-sill,Like a red geranium,Scented his bald cranium.Said Brighella, meaning well—“Pack your box and—go to Hell!Heat will cure your rheumatism.”Silence crowned this optimism.Not a sound and not a wail—But the fire (lush leafy vale)Watched the angry feathers fly.Pantalone ’gan to cry—Could not,wouldnot, pack his box.Shadows (curtseying hens and cocks)Pecking in the attic gloom,Tried to smother his tail-plume....Till a cock’s comb candle-flame,Crowing loudly, died: Dawn came.

THE tremulous gold of stars within your hairAre yellow bees flown from the hive of night,Finding the blossom of your eyes more fairThan all the pale flowers folded from the light.Then, Sweet, awake, and ope your dreaming eyesEre those bright bees have flown and darkness dies.

BENEATH the flat and paper skyThe sun, a demon’s eye,Glowed through the air, that mask of glass;All wand’ring sounds that passSeemed out of tune, as if the lightWere fiddle-strings pulled tight.The market square with spire and bellClanged out the hour in Hell.The busy chatter of the heatShrilled like a parokeet;And shuddering at the noonday lightThe dust lay dead and whiteAs powder on a mummy’s face,Or fawned with simian graceRound booths with many a hard bright toyAnd wooden brittle joy:The cap and bells of Time the ClownThat, jangling, whistled downYoung cherubs hidden in the guiseOf every bird that flies;And star-bright masks for youth to wear,Lest any dream that fare—Bright pilgrim—past our ken, should seeHints of Reality.Upon the sharp-set grass, shrill-green,Tall trees like rattles lean,And jangle sharp and dizzily;But when night falls they sighTill Pierrot moon steals slyly in,His face more white than sin,Black-masked, and with cool touch lays bareEach cherry, plum, and pear.Then underneath the veilèd eyesOf houses, darkness lies,—Tall houses; like a hopeless prayerThey cleave the sly dumb air.Blind are those houses, paper-thin;Old shadows hid therein,With sly and crazy movements creepLike marionettes, and weep.Tall windows show Infinity;And, hard reality,The candles weep and pry and danceLike lives mocked at by Chance.The rooms are vast as Sleep within:When once I ventured in,Chill Silence, like a surging sea,Slowly enveloped me.

BENEATH the flat and paper skyThe sun, a demon’s eye,Glowed through the air, that mask of glass;All wand’ring sounds that pass

Seemed out of tune, as if the lightWere fiddle-strings pulled tight.The market square with spire and bellClanged out the hour in Hell.

The busy chatter of the heatShrilled like a parokeet;And shuddering at the noonday lightThe dust lay dead and white

As powder on a mummy’s face,Or fawned with simian graceRound booths with many a hard bright toyAnd wooden brittle joy:

The cap and bells of Time the ClownThat, jangling, whistled downYoung cherubs hidden in the guiseOf every bird that flies;

And star-bright masks for youth to wear,Lest any dream that fare—Bright pilgrim—past our ken, should seeHints of Reality.

Upon the sharp-set grass, shrill-green,Tall trees like rattles lean,And jangle sharp and dizzily;But when night falls they sigh

Till Pierrot moon steals slyly in,His face more white than sin,Black-masked, and with cool touch lays bareEach cherry, plum, and pear.

Then underneath the veilèd eyesOf houses, darkness lies,—Tall houses; like a hopeless prayerThey cleave the sly dumb air.

Blind are those houses, paper-thin;Old shadows hid therein,With sly and crazy movements creepLike marionettes, and weep.

Tall windows show Infinity;And, hard reality,The candles weep and pry and danceLike lives mocked at by Chance.

The rooms are vast as Sleep within:When once I ventured in,Chill Silence, like a surging sea,Slowly enveloped me.

THE Satyr ScarabombadonPulled periwig and breeches on:“Grown old and stiff, this modern dressAdds monstrously to my distress;The gout within a hoofen heelIsveryhard to bear; I feelWhen crushed into a buckled shoeThe twinge will be redoubled, too.And when I walk in gardens greenAnd, weeping, think on what has been,Then wipe one eye,—the other seesThe plums and cherries on the trees.Small bird-quick women pass me byWith sleeves that flutter airily,And baskets blazing like a fireWith laughing fruits of my desire;Plums sunburnt as the King of Spain,Gold-cheeked as any Nubian,With strawberries all goldy-freckled,Pears fat as thrushes and as speckled ...Pursue them?... Yes, and squeeze a tear:‘Please spare poor Satyr one, my dear.’‘Be off, sir; go and steal your own!’—Alas, poor Scarabombadon,They’d rend his ruffles, stretch a twig,Tear off a satyr’s periwig!”

WITH spectacles that flash,Striped foolscap hung with goldAnd silver bells that clash,(Bright rhetoric and cold),In owl-dark garments goes the Rain,Dull pedagogue, again.And in my orchard woodSmall song-birds flock and fly,Like cherubs brown and good,When through the trees go IKnee-deep within the dark-leaved sorrel.Cherries red as bells of coralRing to see me come—I, with my fruit-dark hairAs dark as any plum,My summer gown as white as airAnd frilled as any quick bird’s there.But oh, what shall I do?Old Owl-wing’s back from town—He’s skipping through dark trees: I knowHehatesmy summer gown!

AS underneath the trees I passThrough emerald shade on hot soft grass,Petunia faces, glowing-huedWith heat, cast shadows hard and crude—Green-velvety as leaves, and smallFine hairs like grass pierce through them all.But these are all asleep—asleep,As through the schoolroom door I creepIn search of you, for you evadeAll the advances I have made.Come, Horace, you must take my hand.This sulking state I will not stand!But you shall feed on strawberry jamAt tea-time, if you cease to slamThe doors that open from our sense—Through which I slipped to drag you hence!

THE apples grow like silver trumpsThat red-cheeked fair-haired angels blow—So clear their juice; on trees in clumps,Feathered as any bird, they grow.A lady stood amid those crops—Her voice was like a blue or pinkGlass window full of lollipops;Her words were very strange, I think:“Prince Paris, too, a fair-haired boyPlucked me an apple from dark trees;Since when their smoothness makes my joy;If you will pluck me one of theseI’ll kiss you like a golden windAs clear as any apples be.”And now she haunts my singing mind—And oh, she will not set me free.

THE apples grow like silver trumpsThat red-cheeked fair-haired angels blow—So clear their juice; on trees in clumps,Feathered as any bird, they grow.

A lady stood amid those crops—Her voice was like a blue or pinkGlass window full of lollipops;Her words were very strange, I think:

“Prince Paris, too, a fair-haired boyPlucked me an apple from dark trees;Since when their smoothness makes my joy;If you will pluck me one of these

I’ll kiss you like a golden windAs clear as any apples be.”And now she haunts my singing mind—And oh, she will not set me free.

AMONG the dark and brilliant leaves,Where flowers seem tinsel firework-sheaves,Blond barley-sugar children stareThrough shining apple-trees, and thereA lady like a golden windWhose hair like apples tumbles kind,And whose bright name, so I believe,Is sometimes Venus, sometimes Eve,Stands, her face furrowed like my ownWith thoughts wherefrom strange seeds are sown,Whence, long since, stars for bright flowers grewLike periwinkles pink and blue,—(Queer impulses of bestial kind,Flesh indivisible from mind.)I, painted like the wooden sun,Must hand-in-hand with angels run—The tinsel angels of the boothThat lead poor yokels to the truthThrough raucous jokes, till we can seeThat narrow long EternityIs but the whip’s lash o’er our eyes—Spurring to new vitalities.

AMONG the dark and brilliant leaves,Where flowers seem tinsel firework-sheaves,

Blond barley-sugar children stareThrough shining apple-trees, and there

A lady like a golden windWhose hair like apples tumbles kind,

And whose bright name, so I believe,Is sometimes Venus, sometimes Eve,

Stands, her face furrowed like my ownWith thoughts wherefrom strange seeds are sown,

Whence, long since, stars for bright flowers grewLike periwinkles pink and blue,—

(Queer impulses of bestial kind,Flesh indivisible from mind.)

I, painted like the wooden sun,Must hand-in-hand with angels run—

The tinsel angels of the boothThat lead poor yokels to the truth

Through raucous jokes, till we can seeThat narrow long Eternity

Is but the whip’s lash o’er our eyes—Spurring to new vitalities.

THE apples are an angel’s meat,The shining dark leaves make clear-sweetThe juice; green wooden fruits alwayDrop on these flowers as white as day—Clear angel-face on hairy stalk;(Soul grown from flesh, an ape’s young talk.)And in this green and lovely groundThe Fair, world-like, turns round and round,And bumpkins throw their pence to shedAunt Sally’s crude-striped wooden head.I do not care if men should throwRound sun and moon to make me go,(As bright as gold and silver pence) ...They cannot drive their own blood hence!

THE apples are an angel’s meat,The shining dark leaves make clear-sweet

The juice; green wooden fruits alwayDrop on these flowers as white as day—

Clear angel-face on hairy stalk;(Soul grown from flesh, an ape’s young talk.)

And in this green and lovely groundThe Fair, world-like, turns round and round,

And bumpkins throw their pence to shedAunt Sally’s crude-striped wooden head.

I do not care if men should throwRound sun and moon to make me go,

(As bright as gold and silver pence) ...They cannot drive their own blood hence!

GREEN wooden leaves clap light away,Severely practical, as theyShelter the children, candy-pale.The chestnut-candles flicker, fail....The showman’s face is cubed clear asThe shapes reflected in a glassOf water—(glog, glut, a ghost’s speechFumbling for space from each to each).The fusty showman fumbles, mustFit in a particle of dustThe universe, for fear it gainIts freedom from my box of brain.Yet dust bears seeds that grow to graceBehind my crude-striped wooden faceAs I, a puppet tinsel-pink,Leap on my springs, learn how to think,Then like the trembling golden stalkOf some long-petalled star, I walkThrough the dark heavens until dewFalls on my eyes and sense thrills through.

GREEN wooden leaves clap light away,Severely practical, as they

Shelter the children, candy-pale.The chestnut-candles flicker, fail....

The showman’s face is cubed clear asThe shapes reflected in a glass

Of water—(glog, glut, a ghost’s speechFumbling for space from each to each).

The fusty showman fumbles, mustFit in a particle of dust

The universe, for fear it gainIts freedom from my box of brain.

Yet dust bears seeds that grow to graceBehind my crude-striped wooden face

As I, a puppet tinsel-pink,Leap on my springs, learn how to think,

Then like the trembling golden stalkOf some long-petalled star, I walk

Through the dark heavens until dewFalls on my eyes and sense thrills through.

TURN, turn again,Ape’s blood in each vein.The people that passSeem castles of glass,The old and the good,Giraffes of blue wood;The soldier, the nurse,Wooden face and a curse,Are shadowed with plumageLike birds by the gloomage.Blond hair like a clown’s,The music floats, drownsThe creaking of ropesThe breaking of hopes.The wheezing, the old,Like harmoniums scold:Go to Babylon, Rome,The brain-cells called home,The grave, New Jerusalem,Wrinkled Methusalem:From our floating hairDerived the first fairAnd queer inspirationOf music (the nationOf bright-plumed treesAnd harpy-shrill breeze).. . .Turn, turn again,Ape’s blood in each vein.

OLD Lady Fly-AwayLost her temper, night and day,Took the bright moon’s broom—Swept round the attic room.“Dear me, wherecanit be?Not a temper can I see!”Sighed the Moon upon the stair:“Always look to see, dear,When you ‘put your foot down,’Lest it crushes Babylon;Tryto get it nearer home,In fields of clover or in Rome!”Old Lady Fly-AwayKnew her temper would not stay,So pretended not to hear—Sweeping for it on the stair.

GREAT Snoring and NorwichA dish of pease porridge!The clock of Troy townStrikes one o’clock; brownHoney-bees in the cloverAre half-the-seas-over,And Time is a-boringFrom here to Great Snoring.But Time, the grey mouse,Can’t wake up the house,For old King PriamIs sleepy as I am!

WHEN I should be at work, insteadI lie and kick for fun, in bed:Down the narrow rails, hear trainsGo quick as other people’s brains—Hump their backs and snore and growl,Grumble, rumble, tumble, prowl—Bearing people, pink as pigs,Through water-clear fields dancing jigs.Like a whale among my pillowsDash I, splash I, sheets in billowsAs the trains toss spangled seas,Like bright flags on the tusks of these.How I envy those at workWhen I can lie in bed and shirk.

“APENNY fare to Babylon,A penny for each thought!”“Oh, ma’am, no, ma’am,Can’t be bought!The Sun gives pots of money,The Moon, her bread and honey,When humming like a clover-fieldI go up to town.Whitened by the Moon’s flour,All the birds I own,Lest they be baked into a pie,Are flown, dear, flown.Though you whistle in the corridorsThat dance into my brain—Oh, ma’am, no, ma’am,They will not come again.”

PANTALOON jumps in his brightButcher’s shop, where red and whiteMeat hangs up like clown’s attire—Laughs as shrill as grass or fire.In his house sits Il Dottore,In the rickety top storyPlays a mandoline to pleaseCoral bells on cherry trees....But the bees have left his bonnetFor the meat; they buzz upon it—Goldy summer lights—they hoverLike the bees upon red clover,Flying straight into the shop,Full of facts, where theories stop.

THE King of China’s daughter,She never would love meThough I hung my cap and bells uponHer nutmeg tree.For oranges and lemons,The stars in bright blue air,(I stole them long ago, my dear)Were dangling there.The Moon did give me silver pence,The Sun did give me gold,And both together softly blewAnd made my porridge cold;But the King of China’s daughterPretended not to seeWhen I hung my cap and bells uponHer nutmeg tree.

OLD King PtolemyClimbed the stairInto the atticOf Anywhere.Old King PtolemySulked to bed;Maids cleared up his toys—“Broken,” they said.“The King’s in a temper,The King’s in a pet,”Wriggling their necks like geese—“Oh, what a fret!”The StruwwelpeterRound-eyed Sun,Rocked on his rocking-horseHalf in fun,—Rocked on the landing,Rocked on the stair:“Babylon’s empty,The cupboard is bare....King Ptolemy’s snoringSounds on the breezeLike the sound of fruit growingOn mulberry trees.”

TALL cranes with wooden bodicesStuffed full of shadow odyssies.They hiss like geese through schoolroombarsAt the bright flower-show of the stars.The houses (children’s bricks) float byOn swords of moonshine, cry and sigh.The schoolmen spray with glittering laughterThis flower-show, budding strangely after.“Our map-like cheeks are painted redWhere sawdust gods were pierced and bled“By all this moonshine, and we feelBlood should be dry,”—ErazureelCried; “Blue, pink, yellow planets, brightFlowers frilled as seas breathe in the night;These frillèd pinks, so neat and nice,We’ll teach to turn the world to ice.Our science then can soon inureThe stars to blossom from manure;The world will be all map-like, plainAs our lined cheeks, and once againThe soul (moot point) will scarce intrudeIts lack of depth and magnitude!”

TALL cranes with wooden bodicesStuffed full of shadow odyssies.

They hiss like geese through schoolroombarsAt the bright flower-show of the stars.

The houses (children’s bricks) float byOn swords of moonshine, cry and sigh.

The schoolmen spray with glittering laughterThis flower-show, budding strangely after.

“Our map-like cheeks are painted redWhere sawdust gods were pierced and bled

“By all this moonshine, and we feelBlood should be dry,”—Erazureel

Cried; “Blue, pink, yellow planets, brightFlowers frilled as seas breathe in the night;

These frillèd pinks, so neat and nice,We’ll teach to turn the world to ice.

Our science then can soon inureThe stars to blossom from manure;

The world will be all map-like, plainAs our lined cheeks, and once again

The soul (moot point) will scarce intrudeIts lack of depth and magnitude!”

What the Professor said to the Editor of “Wheels”

OLD Professor GoosecapWatched the planet’s flower-show.“Pedagogues well-drilled, mayhap,Marshalled in a row,Can perceive in China astersHalf a hemisphere’s disasters,With rays to pierce the fourth dimension:Come, limit it to our declension!Pedagogues, through schoolroom bars,Must thrust their faces like a mapCrownèd with a dunce’s cap,To hiss like geese at the stars,And crush with wooden toe—All growing,And blowing,These Canterbury bells as they blow,These silvery bells in a row!”

BY the blue wooden sea,Curling laboriously,Coral and amber grots(Cherries and apricots),Ribbons of noisy heat,Binding them head and feet,Horses as fat as plumsSnort as each bumpkin comes.Giggles like towers of glass(Pink and blue spirals) pass,Oh, how the VacancyLaughed at them rushing by!“Turn again, flesh and brain,Only yourselves again!How far above the Ape,Differing in each shape,You with your regular,Meaningless circles are!”

CASTLES of crystal,Castles of wood,Moving on pulleysJust as you should!See the gay peopleFlaunting like flags,Bells in the steeple,Sky all in rags.Bright as a parrotFlaunts the gay heat—Songs in the garret,Fruit in the street;Plump as a cherry,Red as a rose,Old Mother Berry—Blowing her nose!

THE houses on a see-saw rushIn the giddy sun’s hard spectrum, pushThe noisy heat’s machinery;Like flags of coloured heat they fly.The wooden ripples of the smilesSuck down the houses, then at whiles,Grown suctioned like an octopus,They throw them up again at us,As we rush by on coloured barsOf sense, vibrating flower-hued stars,With lips like velvet drinks and windsThat bring strange Peris to our minds.

THE houses on a see-saw rushIn the giddy sun’s hard spectrum, push

The noisy heat’s machinery;Like flags of coloured heat they fly.

The wooden ripples of the smilesSuck down the houses, then at whiles,

Grown suctioned like an octopus,They throw them up again at us,

As we rush by on coloured barsOf sense, vibrating flower-hued stars,

With lips like velvet drinks and windsThat bring strange Peris to our minds.

SEAS are roaring like a lion; with theirwavy flocks Zion,Noses like a scimitar,Hair a brassy barComeToThe sun’s drum; throughLight green waters swim their daughters, lashingwith their eel-sleek-locksThe furredHeadsOf mermaids that occurred,Sinking to their cheap beds.BlurredLegs, like trunks of tropicalPlants, rise up and, over all,Green as a conservatory,Is the light ... another story....It has grown too late for life:Put on your gloves and take a drive!

UPON the noon Cassandra diedThe harpy preened itself outside.Bank Holiday put forth its glamour,And in the wayside station’s clamourWe found the café at the rear,And sat and drank our Pilsener beer.Words smeared upon our wooden facesNow paint them into queer grimaces;The crackling greeneries that spirtLike fireworks, mock our souls inert,And we seem feathered like a birdAmong those shadows scarcely heard.Beneath her shade-ribbed switchback maneThe harpy, breasted like a train,Was haggling with a farmer’s wife:“Fresh harpy’s eggs, no trace of life.”Miss Sitwell, cross and white as chalk,Was indisposed for the small talk.Since, peering through a shadowed door,She saw Cassandra on the floor.

UPON the noon Cassandra diedThe harpy preened itself outside.

Bank Holiday put forth its glamour,And in the wayside station’s clamour

We found the café at the rear,And sat and drank our Pilsener beer.

Words smeared upon our wooden facesNow paint them into queer grimaces;

The crackling greeneries that spirtLike fireworks, mock our souls inert,

And we seem feathered like a birdAmong those shadows scarcely heard.

Beneath her shade-ribbed switchback maneThe harpy, breasted like a train,

Was haggling with a farmer’s wife:“Fresh harpy’s eggs, no trace of life.”

Miss Sitwell, cross and white as chalk,Was indisposed for the small talk.

Since, peering through a shadowed door,She saw Cassandra on the floor.

UPON the noonCassandra died,Harpy soonScreeched outside.Gardener Jupp,In his shed,Counted woodenCarrots red.Black shades pass,Dead-stiff there,On green baize grass—Drink his beer.Bumpkin turnip,Mask limp-locked,White sun frightsThe gardener shocked.Harpy creakedHer limbs again:“I think, she squeaked,It’s going to rain!”

DANCE the jig, whirlIn the street, girl.Rush up and down,Houses, to town—On the see-sawMade out of rawHot yellow rays,Crude edges of days.Dance the jig, whirl—Like your blond curl!Oh! it is fine to-day,On this Bank Holiday!Sound of young feetComes down the street ...Never againPleasure or pain....Dance the jig, whirlIn the street, girl.Do the dead acheIn summer, to slakeTheir thirst of love?—Hush,—No tears to gush,My soul is of mud,Cannot weep blood..... . . .Dance the jig, dance the jig,—Dance the jig, girl.

THE tents are coloured like a child’s balloons;They swell upon the air like August moonsAnchored by waters paler than a pearl;The airs like rain-wet shrinking petals curlBeneath the rainbow lights of noon that fillThe open calyx with the faintest thrill,Then break in airy bubbles on the senseLike sounds upheld in exquisite suspense.In grande toilette, and with a parasolBright-fringèd as the noonday sun, (that foolOf beauty,) Messalina promenades.A crinoline keeps off the other shades:Her grape-black hair casts shadows deep as death;All curled and high, yet stirring at Time’s breath.The powder on her face is shuddering whiteAs dust of æons seen in heaven’s light.She leaves the sands, where in tents striped like fruitsThe dancers whirl like winds to airy flutes,And music, soother than the pulp of pearlsWhose sweetness decks the swan-white syren girls,In air-pale waves like water, has the sheenOf mirrors, floats like flower-wing’d stars.—O spleen!Leave Regent’s Park and quit societyOnly to find this immorality!So now she goes to church, where bonnets steamLike incense, and the painted windows seemNaught but a coloured veil stupidityHad wrought to clothe her dumb soliloquy:“There’s comfort in old age: the steam of foodAscending like the rich man’s soul to God;And little words that crackle as they went,How such and such a life was evil spent,“Until they make a fire to warm our hands.For Time has wrapp’d the heart in swaddling bands,But yet they could not save it from the cold.—The soul’s a pander grown; for she has sold“My body to the Church; does nicely now.Oh! Soul has much to learn from flesh, I vow.”Thus Messalina, grown both old and fat,—The Church’s parrot now, and dull at that!

THE tents are coloured like a child’s balloons;They swell upon the air like August moonsAnchored by waters paler than a pearl;The airs like rain-wet shrinking petals curl

Beneath the rainbow lights of noon that fillThe open calyx with the faintest thrill,Then break in airy bubbles on the senseLike sounds upheld in exquisite suspense.

In grande toilette, and with a parasolBright-fringèd as the noonday sun, (that foolOf beauty,) Messalina promenades.A crinoline keeps off the other shades:

Her grape-black hair casts shadows deep as death;All curled and high, yet stirring at Time’s breath.The powder on her face is shuddering whiteAs dust of æons seen in heaven’s light.

She leaves the sands, where in tents striped like fruitsThe dancers whirl like winds to airy flutes,And music, soother than the pulp of pearlsWhose sweetness decks the swan-white syren girls,

In air-pale waves like water, has the sheenOf mirrors, floats like flower-wing’d stars.—O spleen!Leave Regent’s Park and quit societyOnly to find this immorality!

So now she goes to church, where bonnets steamLike incense, and the painted windows seemNaught but a coloured veil stupidityHad wrought to clothe her dumb soliloquy:

“There’s comfort in old age: the steam of foodAscending like the rich man’s soul to God;And little words that crackle as they went,How such and such a life was evil spent,

“Until they make a fire to warm our hands.For Time has wrapp’d the heart in swaddling bands,But yet they could not save it from the cold.—The soul’s a pander grown; for she has sold

“My body to the Church; does nicely now.Oh! Soul has much to learn from flesh, I vow.”Thus Messalina, grown both old and fat,—The Church’s parrot now, and dull at that!

THE air is like a jarring bellThat jangles words it cannot spell,And black as Fate, the iron treesStretch thirstily to catch the breeze.The fat leaves pat the shrinking air;The hot sun’s patronising stareRouses the stout flies from contentTo some small show of sentiment.Beneath the terrace shines the greenMetallic strip of sea, and sheenOf sands, where folk flaunt parrot-brightWith rags and tags of noisy light.The brass band’s snorting stabs the skyAnd tears the yielding vacancy—The imbecile and smiling blueUntil fresh meaning trickles through;And slowly we perambulateWith spectacles that concentrate,In one short hour, Eternity,In one small lens, Infinity.With children, our primeval curse,We overrun the universe—Beneath the giddy lights of noon,White as a tired August moon.The air is like a jarring bellThat jangles words it cannot spell,And black as Fate, the iron treesStretch thirstily to catch the breeze.

THE air is like a jarring bellThat jangles words it cannot spell,And black as Fate, the iron treesStretch thirstily to catch the breeze.

The fat leaves pat the shrinking air;The hot sun’s patronising stareRouses the stout flies from contentTo some small show of sentiment.

Beneath the terrace shines the greenMetallic strip of sea, and sheenOf sands, where folk flaunt parrot-brightWith rags and tags of noisy light.

The brass band’s snorting stabs the skyAnd tears the yielding vacancy—The imbecile and smiling blueUntil fresh meaning trickles through;

And slowly we perambulateWith spectacles that concentrate,In one short hour, Eternity,In one small lens, Infinity.

With children, our primeval curse,We overrun the universe—Beneath the giddy lights of noon,White as a tired August moon.

The air is like a jarring bellThat jangles words it cannot spell,And black as Fate, the iron treesStretch thirstily to catch the breeze.

AND shall we never find those diamonds brightThat were the fawn-queen of Palmyra’s eyes?—Ah, dark hot jewels lie hidden from the sightBeneath dark palm-trees where the river sighsBeyond the tomb of young eternities;And in the desert, lonely flowers weep—The clouds have such long hair—that tangles Sleep.

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