Goblins and Pagodas Part 9

Before the shrine, as before, Once more the golden curtain, And the black shapes vanish.

Aloft in the hollow temple There is a shuffle of feet and a sound of hollow voices, Soon lost.

The village drowses in the darkness: Like a vast black cube The temple looms above it, There is no light on its facade.

Suddenly, all the golden temple Kindles like a rose against the dawn.

I only know in the midnight Something has been born of me.

WHITE SYMPHONY

I

Forlorn and white, Whorls of purity about a golden chalice, Immense the peonies Flare and shatter their petals over my face.

They slowly turn paler, They seem to be melting like blue-grey flakes of ice, Thin greyish s.h.i.+vers Fluctuating mid the dark green lance-thrust of the leaves.

Like s...o...b..a.l.l.s tossed, Like soft white b.u.t.terflies, The peonies poise in the twilight.

And their narcotic insinuating perfume Draws me into them s.h.i.+vering with the coolness, Aching with the void.

They kiss the blue chalice of my dreams Like a gesture seen for an instant and then lost forever.

Outwards the petals Thrust to embrace me, Pale daggers of coldness Run through my aching breast.

Outwards, still outwards, Till on the brink of twilight They swirl downwards silently, Flurry of snow in the void.

Outwards, still outwards, Till the blue walls are hidden, And in the blinding white radiance Of a whirlpool of clouds, I awake.

Like spraying rockets My peonies shower Their glories on the night.

Wavering perfumes, Drift about the garden; Shadows of the moonlight, Drift and ripple over the dew-gemmed leaves.

Soar, crash, and sparkle, Shoal of stars drifting Like silver fishes, Through the black sluggish boughs.

Towards the impossible, Towards the inaccessible, Towards the ultimate, Towards the silence, Towards the eternal, These blossoms go.

The peonies spring like rockets in the twilight, And out of them all I rise.

II

Downwards through the blue abyss it slides, The white snow-water of my dreams, Downwards cras.h.i.+ng from slippery rock Into the boiling chasm: In which no eye dare look, for it is the chasm of death.

Upwards from the blue abyss it rises, The chill water-mist of my dreams; Upwards to greyish weeping pines, And to skies of autumn ever about my heart, It is blue at the beginning, And blue-white against the grey-greenness; It wavers in the upper air, Catching unconscious sparkles, a rainbow-glint of sunlight, And fading in the sad depths of the sky.

Outwards rush the strong pale clouds, Outwards and ever outwards; The blue-grey clouds indistinguishable one from another: Nervous, sinewy, tossing their arms and brandis.h.i.+ng, Till on the blue serrations of the horizon They drench with their black rain a great peak of changeless snow.

As evening came on, I climbed the tower, To gaze upon the city far beneath: I was not weary of day; but in the evening A white mist a.s.sembled and gathered over the earth And blotted it from sight.

But to escape: To chase with the golden clouds galloping over the horizon: Arrows of the northwest wind Singing amid them, Ruffling up my hair!

As evening came on the distance altered, Pale wavering reflections rose from out the city, Like sighs or the beckoning of half-invisible hands.

Monotonously and sluggishly they crept upwards A river that had spent itself in some chasm, And dwindled and foamed at last at my weary feet.

Autumn! Golden fountains, And the winds neighing Amid the monotonous hills: Desolation of the old G.o.ds, Rain that lifts and rain that moves away; In the greenback torrent Scarlet leaves.

It was now perfectly evening: And the tower loomed like a gaunt peak in mid-air Above the city: its base was utterly lost.

It was slowly coming on to rain, And the immense columns of white mist Wavered and broke before the faint-hurled spears.

I will descend the mountains like a shepherd, And in the folds of tumultuous misty cities, I will put all my thoughts, all my old thoughts, safely to sleep.

For it is already autumn, O whiteness of the pale southwestern sky!

O wavering dream that was not mine to keep!

In midnight, in mournful moonlight, By paths I could not trace, I walked in the white garden, Each flower had a white face.

Their perfume intoxicated me: thus I began my dream.

I was alone; I had no one to guide me, But the moon was like the sun: It stooped and kissed each waxen petal, One after one.

Green and white was that garden: diamond rain hung in the branches, You will not believe it!

In the morning, at the dayspring, I wakened, s.h.i.+vering; lo, The white garden that blossomed at my feet Was a garden hidden in snow.

It was my sorrow to see that all this was a dream.

III

Blue, clogged with purple, Mists uncoil themselves: Sparkling to the horizon, I see the snow alone.

In the deep blue chasm, Boats sleep under gold thatch; Icicle-like trees fret Faintly rose-touched sky.