Paris, 1919
III
Against my wall the summer weaves
Profundities of dusky leaves,
And many-petaled stars full-blown
In constellated whiteness sown;
I contemplate with lazy eyes
My small estate in Paradise,
And very comforting to me
Is this familiarity.
Paris, 1919
IV
Into the trembling air,
Calm on the sunset mist,
Sweetness of gardens where
The yellow slave boy kissed
The Sultan's daughter….
Shadow of tumbled hair
Shadow of hanging vine
Fountains of gold that twine
In singing water.
A secret I have heard
From the scarlet beak of the bird
That sings at the close of day,
Fills me with cold unrest
Under the open doors of the fiery west.
"O heart of clay,
O lips of dust,
O blue-shadowed wisteria vine;
Youth falls away
As petals must
Beneath the drooping leaves in the day's decline."
Paris, 1919