XXI
Our love is like a Japan print, you think,
Rare mulberry-paper one, like gold that’s dead?
Foreground a garden, kiosk-canopièd
O’er moon-eyed, magic flowers of black and pink;
Curved, quaint-bridged river; temple on the brink
Where lidless eyed sits Buddah unwearièd,
Dreaming that time is naught, the now even sped.
To westward over all black bird-dots sink.
Background, a fairy sea of dreamland blue
Whence mountains rise that surely once we knew
In some dim other life too sweet for words.
Aye! Aye! our Love-Land! But those black, black birds—
Too like they are to monks who hovered where
That old Greek garden of the world was fair.