Part 3 (1/2)

Paris, 1919

III

Against my wall the summer weaves Profundities of dusky leaves, And many-petaled stars full-blown In constellated whiteness sown; I contemplate with lazy eyes My small estate in Paradise, And very comforting to me Is this familiarity.

Paris, 1919

IV

Into the trembling air, Calm on the sunset mist, Sweetness of gardens where The yellow slave boy kissed The Sultan's daughter....

Shadow of tumbled hair Shadow of hanging vine Fountains of gold that twine In singing water.

A secret I have heard From the scarlet beak of the bird That sings at the close of day, Fills me with cold unrest Under the open doors of the fiery west.

”O heart of clay, O lips of dust, O blue-shadowed wisteria vine; Youth falls away As petals must Beneath the drooping leaves in the day's decline.”

Paris, 1919

V

In gardens when the sun is set, The air is heavy with the wet Faint smell of leaves, and dark incense Of peach-blossom and violet.

There is no lurking foe to fear, Only the friendly ghosts are here Of lazy youth and dozing age, Who sat and mellowed year by year,

Until they merged with all the rest Beneath the overhanging west, And took their sleep with tranquil hearts Safe in our Mother's mighty breast.

If there be any sound, 'tis sweet, The hidden rush of eager feet Where robins flutter in the dust, Or perch upon the garden-seat,

And little voices that are known To those who contemplate alone The busy universe that moves In gardens rank and overgrown.

Here in the garden we are one, The golden dust, the setting sun, The languid leaves, the birds and I,-- Small bubbles on oblivion.

Tours, 1918

VI

Now the white dove has found her mate, And the rainbow breaks into stars; And the cattle lunge through the mossy gate As the old man lowers the bars.

Westerly wind with a rainy smell, Eaves that drip in the mud; And the pain of the tender miracle Stabbing the languid blood.

Over the long, wet meadow-land, Beyond the deep sunset, There is a hand that pressed your hand, And eyes that shall not forget.

Now the West is the door of wrath, Now 'tis a burnt-out coal; Petals fall on the orchard path; Darkness falls on the soul.

Was.h.i.+ngton, 1918

VII