More Gurgles
The last light fades and drifts across the land,
The low, long land, the land of towers and spires,
That wanders lonely lest the lurid lyres
Press thy pale petals with a passionate hand—
Enchanted essences and pagan pyres—
Oh, dream that sleeps and sleep that knows no dreaming!
So wert thou wrought in fragrant fadeless fires.
So wert thou wrapt in garments goldly gleaming
And dying knew not what should end this seeming.
The ghosts of evenings haunt these afternoons.
The mid-day twilight shifts with my desire.
Nor yet before my eyes do they conspire
There to distil the fragrance of the moons
That burn and are consumed with splendid fire,
And hurl them to abide in their abode
Where young Fitjazzer tuned his youthful lyre
And sang to Princeton his melodious ode
Which, what it means, there’s no one never knowed.