What does the bird-seller care for the heart of a bird?
II
A SMOKE SONG
There is a grey plume of smoke on the horizon,
The smoke of a steamer that has departed over the edge of the world.
There is the smoke of a dying fire in my heart,
The smoke has hurt my eyes, they ache with tears.
AN AFTERGLOW ON THE NILE
Silver and misty rose
And iris-flushed mother-of-pearl
Is the world at the clear day’s close,
River and sky and sand:
Into a land we sail
Soft-hued like the dreams of a girl,
Vaguely outlined and bubble-frail—
Into a mystic land.
Speak, and the vision breaks,
Yea, feel but too strongly, it flies
From the tumult its beauty wakes
Deep in our hearts’ stronghold;
We can but stand and gaze,
With all our souls’ life in our eyes,
As we spin out this day of days
Thin to a thread of gold.
. . . . . . . . . .
Life has a flagon tall
O’erbrimming with beauty’s clear wine,
We only can sip at it all—
If we could lay it by,
Treasure it, hold it fast,
And revel in colour divine
When the grey days come past,
Then we should never die.
That is for gods alone,
For beauty has butterfly wings,
And we never can make it our own,
Bloom unscattered, unless
We are as gods, apart—
And not one of these wonderful things
May I ever set down, though my heart
Break in its helplessness.
THE EXPLORER
Had I been Adam in Eden-glade
I should have climbed the wall
Or ever the Woman found the fruit,
Crimson and ripe to fall.
For though the garden be Paradise,
Gardens are little worth
To one who thirsts for the wilderness
Lonely in all the earth.