XXIX
The Pattern of the Earth
The pattern of the earth, so wonderful,
Is, more than myrtle, very dear to me.
Across the avenue of limes I see
A little mist by ghosts made magical,
Tossing across the hills, more beautiful
Than the deep eyes of amber women, free
Of shame and of disdain, on some far sea
Swept by trade-winds the sun makes lyrical.
There is no air the mind may not recall,
Blown from the violet-beds of Greece; and all
The moons who drop their shattered petals here
Live from the days which hid Semiramis.
Breezes upon my lips are subtly dear,
Because they bear the burden of her kiss.
XXX
Disguised
The beggar thoughts pass down the lanes of day,
And on the thorns that are the hours I find
Their tatters and their rags. Infirm and blind,
They faded in the void, and all the way
Mouthed senseless jeers at me. I dared not pray
For wisdom from these fools who throng the mind
And leave no gifts but bitterness behind.
Chin upon hand, I watched, nor bade them stay.