The golden Orient savours pass:
The full spring throbs in all the shade:
Like a moon-shadow on the grass,
My hope into the dusk would fade.
The full spring throbs in all the shade;
We shall have roses soon, I trow;
My hope into the dusk would fade;
Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow.
We shall have roses soon I trow;
Soon will the rich red poppies burn:
Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow:
My hope is fled beyond return.
Soon will the rich red poppies burn;
Soon will blue iris star the stream:
My hope is fled beyond return;
Have my eyes tears for my waste dream?
Soon will blue iris star the stream;
Summer will turn the air to wine:
Have my eyes tears for my waste dream?
Can songs come from these lips of mine?
Summer will turn the air to wine,
So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers:
Can songs come from those lips of mine?
My thoughts are grey as winter hours.
So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers.
The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath;
My thoughts are grey as winter hours;
My soul, my soul is sick to death.
John Payne.
EN ROUTE.
(Pantoum.)