THE air is like a jarring bell
That jangles words it cannot spell,
And black as Fate, the iron trees
Stretch thirstily to catch the breeze.
The fat leaves pat the shrinking air;
The hot sun’s patronising stare
Rouses the stout flies from content
To some small show of sentiment.
Beneath the terrace shines the green
Metallic strip of sea, and sheen
Of sands, where folk flaunt parrot-bright
With rags and tags of noisy light.
The brass band’s snorting stabs the sky
And tears the yielding vacancy—
The imbecile and smiling blue
Until fresh meaning trickles through;
And slowly we perambulate
With spectacles that concentrate,
In one short hour, Eternity,
In one small lens, Infinity.
With children, our primeval curse,
We overrun the universe—
Beneath the giddy lights of noon,
White as a tired August moon.
The air is like a jarring bell
That jangles words it cannot spell,
And black as Fate, the iron trees
Stretch thirstily to catch the breeze.
SONG FROM “THE QUEEN OF PALMYRA”
AND shall we never find those diamonds bright
That were the fawn-queen of Palmyra’s eyes?—
Ah, dark hot jewels lie hidden from the sight
Beneath dark palm-trees where the river sighs
Beyond the tomb of young eternities;
And in the desert, lonely flowers weep—
The clouds have such long hair—that tangles Sleep.