CANZONET
I have no store Of gryphon-guarded gold; Now, as before, Bare is the shepherd"s fold.
Rubies nor pearls Have I to gem thy throat; Yet woodland girls Have loved the shepherd"s note.
Then pluck a reed And bid me sing to thee, For I would feed Thine ears with melody, Who art more fair Than fairest fleur-de-lys, More sweet and rare Than sweetest ambergris.
What dost thou fear?
Young Hyacinth is slain, Pan is not here, And will not come again.
No horned Faun Treads down the yellow leas, No G.o.d at dawn Steals through the olive trees.
Hylas is dead, Nor will he e"er divine Those little red Rose-petalled lips of thine.
On the high hill No ivory dryads play, Silver and still Sinks the sad autumn day.
LE JARDIN DES TUILERIES
This winter air is keen and cold, And keen and cold this winter sun, But round my chair the children run Like little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kiosk The mimic soldiers strut and stride, Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse cons Her book, they steal across the square, And launch their paper navies where Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee, And now they rush, a boisterous band - And, tiny hand on tiny hand, Climb up the black and leafless tree.
Ah! cruel tree! if I were you, And children climbed me, for their sake Though it be winter I would break Into spring blossoms white and blue!
PAN - DOUBLE VILLANELLE
I.
O goat-foot G.o.d of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old, And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in glee Throw apples at thy wattled fold, O goat-foot G.o.d of Arcady!
Nor through the laurels can one see Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be, For here the winds are chill and cold, O goat-loot G.o.d of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice, Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold, And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold, O goat-foot G.o.d of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
II.
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady, Thy satyrs and their wanton play, This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we, For Faun and nymph are old and grey, Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where liberty Lit grave-browed Milton on his way, This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry Where gentle Sidney saw the day, Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This fierce sea-lion of the sea, This England lacks some stronger lay, This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free, And give thine oaten pipe away, Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!
IN THE FOREST
Out of the mid-wood"s twilight Into the meadow"s dawn, Ivory limbed and brown-eyed, Flashes my Faun!
He skips through the copses singing, And his shadow dances along, And I know not which I should follow, Shadow or song!
O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness I track him in vain!
SYMPHONY IN YELLOW
An omnibus across the bridge Crawls like a yellow b.u.t.terfly And, here and there, a pa.s.ser-by Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay Are moored against the shadowy wharf, And, like a yellow silken scarf, The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade And flutter from the Temple elms, And at my feet the pale green Thames Lies like a rod of rippled jade.