Poems of West & East

Disillusion

I WROTE the burning words to you That meant so much to me. I sent them speeding straight to you, To you across the sea; I waited with sure reckoning For your reply to me.

I waited, and the counted day Fruitlessly came and went; I made excuse for the delay, Pitiable confident. I knew to-morrow's light must bring The words you must have sent.

And still I stand on that dim verge And look across the sea; The waves have changed into a dirge Their volubility. And in my disillusioned heart Is a little grave for me.

But still with shaded eyes I gaze As mournfully I sing, And one by one the trailing days, As they no message bring, Fall with their slow monotony As beads fall from a string.

The Banquet

WINE ran; rich yellow wine upon the marble floor Recklessly spilled; the Nubians ran to pour A fresh libation; and to scatter showers Of red rose petals; candles overturned Smouldered among the ruins of the flowers, And overhead swung heavy shadowy bowers Of blue and purple grapes, And strange fantastic shapes Of varied birds, where lanterns hung and dimly burned.

The melon and the orange, turned to use As golden balls with laughter lightly tossed, Lay burst and drained of their sweet juice, Uselessly ripened and for ever lost; All glowing as they lay upon the ground, As envious of their fellows, Who, piled in luscious reds and yellows, Enriched the tables all around, The tables low, Sheltering the reclining grace; Here, through the curling smoke, a swarthy face, And jewelled turban bound about the head, And here the glow Of red carnation pressed to lips as warmly red.

And as they lay in their luxurious ease, Playing with grapes and rose-leaves, slim And willowy slave-girls, in the hope to please, Twisted and danced before them, to the dim Uncertain music in the shadows played; Some came with supple limb, With Mystery's aid And snake-like creep, Others with riotous leap And made festivity to Bacchus wed; Others with stiff Egyptian tread, And straight black hair hanging in glossy braid, They danced, unnoted, and exhausted fled. * Still floated from beneath the acacia-tree The droning Eastern music's minor key.

I cherished old, jejune advice; I thought I groped for truth; Those dead old languages I learned When I was prodigal of youth!

Then in the sunlight stood a boy, Outstretching either hand, Palm upwards, cup-like, and between The fingers trickled sand.

"Oh, why so grave" he cried to me, "Laugh, stern lips, laugh at last! Let wisdom come when wisdom may. The sand is running fast."

I followed him into the sun, And laughed as he desired, And every day upon the grass We play till we are tired.

And have not grovelled to the Sunday priest, But found an unconfined and daily feast; Was called ungodly, and to those who blamed Laughed back defiance and was not ashamed.

Some hold their duty to be mournful; why? I cannot love your weeping poets; I Am sad in winter, but in summer gay, And vary with each variable day.

And though the pious cavilled at my mirth, At least I rendered thanks for God's fair earth, Grateful that I, among the murmuring rest, Was not an unappreciative guest.

To a Poet Whose Verses I Had Read

I WOULD not venture to dispraise or praise. Too well I know the indifference which bounds A poet in the narrow working-grounds Where he is blind and deaf in all his ways.

He must work out alone his path to glory; A thousand breaths are fanning him along; A thousand tears end in one little song, A thousand conflicts in one little story;

A thousand notes swell to a single chord. He cannot tell where his direction tends; He strives unguided towards indefinite ends; He is an ignorant though absolute lord.

Nomads

FROM the shores of the Atlantic to the gardens of Japan, From the darkness of the Neva to the courts of Ispahan, There is nothing that can hold us, hold our wandering caravan.

Leisurely is our encamping; nowhere pause in hasty flight. Long enough to learn the secret, and the value, and the might, Whether of the northern mountains or the southern lands of light.

And the riches of the regions will be ours from land to land, Falling as a wiling booty under our marauding hand, Rugs from Persia, gods from China, emeralds from Samarcand!

And the old forgotten empires, which have faded turn by turn, From the shades emerging slowly to their ancient sway return, And to their imperial manhood rise the ashes from the urn.

We have known Bzyantium's glory when the eagled flag was flown, When the ruins were not ruins; eagled visions have I known Of a spectral Roman emperor seated on a spectral throne.

We have tasted space and freedom, frontiers falling as we went, Now with narrow bonds and limits never could we be content, For we have abolished boundaries, straitened borders have we rent, And a house no more confines us than the roving nomad's tent.

The Garden

We owned a garden on a hill, We planted rose and daffodil, Flowers that English poets sing, And hoped for glory in the Spring.

We planted yellow hollyhocks, And humble sweetly-smelling stocks, And columbine for carnival, And dreamt of Summer's festival.

And Autumn not to be outdone As heiress of the summer sun, Should doubly wreathe her tawny head With poppies and with creepers red.

We waited then for all to grow, We planted wallflowers in a row. And lavendar and borage blue,-- Alas! we waited, I and you, But love was all that ever grew.

The Dancing Elf*

I WOKE to daylight, and to find A wreath of fading vine-leaves, rough entwined, Lying, as dropped in hasty flight, upon my floor.

Dropped from thy head, sweet Spirit of the night, Who cam'st, with footstep light, Blown in by the soft breeze, as thistledown, In through my open door. Whence? From the woodland, from the fields of corn, From flirting airily with the bright moon, Playing throughout the hours that go too soon, Ready to fly at the approach of morn, Thou cam'st, Bent on the curious quest To see what mortal guest Dwelt in the one-roomed cottage built to face the dawn.