Part 4 (1/2)

XXIX

_The Pattern of the Earth_

The pattern of the earth, so wonderful, Is, more than myrtle, very dear to me.

Across the avenue of limes I see A little mist by ghosts made magical, Tossing across the hills, more beautiful Than the deep eyes of amber women, free Of shame and of disdain, on some far sea Swept by trade-winds the sun makes lyrical.

There is no air the mind may not recall, Blown from the violet-beds of Greece; and all The moons who drop their shattered petals here Live from the days which hid Semiramis.

Breezes upon my lips are subtly dear, Because they bear the burden of her kiss.

x.x.x

_Disguised_

The beggar thoughts pa.s.s down the lanes of day, And on the thorns that are the hours I find Their tatters and their rags. Infirm and blind, They faded in the void, and all the way Mouthed senseless jeers at me. I dared not pray For wisdom from these fools who throng the mind And leave no gifts but bitterness behind.

Chin upon hand, I watched, nor bade them stay.

Then wearily and indolently glanced Where the thorns fluttered with their flags, and, lo, Fragments of cloth of silver gleamed and danced In the late sun, and linen white as snow Among the beggar thoughts, with lowered eyes, Princes and kings had wandered in disguise.

SONGS

I

_On the White Road_

There's a white, white road lies under the swinging moon, Stretched from the black of the deep to the black of the deep, And midway the graveyard lies, with its leaves a-croon, The only sound of the world, like a dream in sleep.

There's a white, white grave lies under the graveyard trees, Hung on the road as a single pearl on a thread, And silence waits, beast crouched, on the rim of the breeze, That moans where the only man in the world lies dead.

II

_The Wanderer_

Have I finished my life, am I done?

Is my heart-blood thin and cold, That I gnaw the bones of the town?

Am I empty and old?

My flags are the chimneys' grime, Tossed on a languid breeze.

Have I dreamed of the roaring rhyme, A storm through the trees?