Goblins and Pagodas Part 13

But yesterday Stardust was scattered deep on the dark gulf of my dreams.

Wind of the night, Questing, swaying, calling, Rustle of dull gra.s.ses, Why do you trouble me?

Yesterday Purple mist was powdered on the windless sea of dreams.

Faces of the night that pa.s.s me, Haggard, monotonous faces, Windblown hair and l.u.s.tful lips, I am not what you desire.

Yesterday One--two--sails above the mist--.

Windswallows that hover Towards the rainclouds of the horizon, Out of the reedy harbours Rocking, swaying, falling, Blown to sea and parted Yesterday, Yesterday.

II

Purple-blue bloom of night, Globed grapes cl.u.s.tered morosely Down the dark vineyards of untrodden streets:

The noise of the moments is like the clash of the hoofs of a horse rattling, Thin tattoo in the stillness: The noise of the moments takes me, uncaring, Towards the day.

With bra.s.sy crash, dawn's corybants Invade and trample the vineyard: Like a faun I hide and watch them, A dark cup in my hand.

Spoilers of my vineyard, Spilling the lees of my sweet red wine, You will yet ask in vain for a cup that is not yours, A purple, dewy cup of lonely night.

Tramplers in the morning, Sunburnt faces and weary lips, There is yet a cup here you cannot have, I hold it in my hands.

Would you drink of it?

Lay down your thyrse and timbrel.

Break the harsh dance that flickers through the morning, Forget the scarlet perfumes of the day.

Remember only starless night, cool swish of many seas.

Faint pearl-glow of evening, Cool marble in the silence: Purple-blue grapes of night crushed freshly, Deep sleep and the drowsy stars.

III

I love the night that in long violet shroud Slowly and lovingly wraps up the day, Hiding its blurred imperfections In endless tenderness.

I love the day's High violet cone of light, With thin haze on the horizon Like a wavering summer sea.

But most of all I love midsummer dawn, When far-off planes of light ascend and tremble together Like distant purple waves, the sound of whose dim breaking Is lost in the wild babel of awaking birds.

IV

Twisted fragments of violet paper, The dawn drops you Into the green bowl filled with the day's grey waves.

I love the night's Deep purple grapes That yesterday Were crushed and spilled, In long and sluggish rivers That joined and made a sea, Where, half-guessed through the mist, Two golden sails Drifted on silently.

The blue fume of my dreams Is laced with violet flame.

One golden sail alone came back to rest In its nest Among the reeds.

The other sail is lost; Behind the mist, Beyond the craggy rock, About which race in jagged white The waves, Horizon on horizon far away She waits.

But through the day, Comes no faint song, nor creaking of the ropes.

Twisted fragments of violet paper, Charred and fallen: Out of the green bowl lazily coils grey smoke.

GREY SYMPHONY

I

Up on the hillside a long row of larches Shake from their grizzled Beards the vestiges of rain, From grey-blue melting ice-slabs 'neath their arches The spring goes up again.

Writhing, exuding, Up-steaming, streaming, The earth is breathing to the sky Wet clouds of spring.

Dim rosy fans, the trees As they flick to and fro, Seem driving greyish vapour Over the snow.

The sky remodulates itself From violet-grey to blue, Under the upturned eaves of the blue larches The sun looks through.

Now with the heat of the sun The grey-blue ice-slabs quiver, They slide in muddy trickles Towards the river.

Up on the hillside between the long row of larches Fume up from south pale clouds that bear the rain; In pearl and violet arches They break and shape again.

II

I have seen in the evening The greyish-violet clouds Roll wearily back from northward To the place whence first they came.

One or two orange lamps burnt low Against deep purple hills--

The wind was hurrying, bundling them together, The pines awoke to sing The song of the snow buzzing and screaming On its one string.

I have seen within my heart Crocuses, purple and gold, Drop cold and dull and colourless Beneath the snow.

One or two orange lamps burnt low, Vain memories.

The wind has driven me too many winters, My songs are snowflakes whirling about my breast.