IV (Cont.)

The strong drugs even brought him no relief,
We marvelled that his frame could bear the strain!
Stretched taut and quivering upon the cot,
It seemed a special instrument of pain.

Before the noon he gave the last sad moan,
Succumbing to the fierce assaulting germs,
That harshly finished their foul work to cast
His empty carcase to the waiting worms.

RETREAT

After the fevered days, the restless nights,
Crowded with movement, filled and overflowing,
Whirling like circling birds in aimless flights,
Dipping round gilded dome and steeped heights,
Blessed is being here and without knowing
Aught of the luring cities' ways and sights.

With peace dearer than love within my breast,
Blessed is being here behind the curtain,
Submissive to the soothing spirit of rest,
In this cell where thought with greater zest
Awakes my mind that lay at first uncertain
Like a bird pinioned, folded in his nest.

Beyond the wearing troubles of the street,
The little souls of men complaining woe,
Blessed is being in this calm retreat,
Blessed the sleepy hours so long and sweet,
That shut me in from life, my friend and foe,
With kindly bands about my hands and feet.

Like heaven's music played on reedy sheaves,
Blessed the foreign tongue that soothes and charms,
Like silver drops of rain from thick-thatched eaves,
That fall upon uplifted tania leaves,
Blessed this accident that even warms
My spirit that here new fire receives.

RETREAT

After the fevered days, the restless nights,
Crowded with movement, filled and overflowing,
Whirling like circling birds in aimless flights,
Dipping round gilded dome and steepled heights,
Blessed is being here and without knowing
Aught of the luring cities' ways and sights.

With peace dearer than love within my breast,
Blessed is being here behind the curtain,
Submissive to the soothing spirit of rest,
In this quiet cell where thought with greater zest
Awakes my mind that lay at first uncertain
Like a bird pinioned, folded in his nest.

Like heaven's music played on reedy sheaves,
Blessed the foreign tongue that soothes and charms,
Like silver drops of rain from thick-thatched eaves,
That fall upon uplifted tania leaves,
Blessed this accident that even warms
My stoic spirit that here new fire receives.

FOR MARGUERITE

Contemplating exquisite flesh aglow,
Awakened by the subtle sign of love,
Marking the rhythm of the passion-flow
Like the brown bosom of a tropic dove,
Sitting upon a wild fig-tree in flower,
Above the white foam of a waterfall,
Sounding its golden note at high noon hour
And waiting for the mate-bird's answering call:

And seeing now your wistful self, I wonder,
Although love's lines be perfect as a bird's,
With flesh as petal-sweet and fair as day,
What vile malignant worms may be thereunder,
Roaming the body's seas in deadly herds,
Seeking to bring sweet love to a harsh decay.

FOR MARGUERITE

Contemplating exquisite flesh aglow
Awakened by the subtle sign of love,
Marking the rhythm of the passion-flow
Like the brown bosom of a tropic dove,
Sitting upon a wild fig-tree in flower,
Above the white foam of a waterfall,
Sounding its golden note at high noon hour
And waiting for the mate-bird's answering call:

And seeing now your wistful self, I wonder,
Although love's lines be perfect as a bird's,
With flesh as petal-sweet and fair as day,
What vile malignant worms may be thereunder,
Roaming the body's seas in deadly herds,
Seeking to bring sweet love to harsh decay.

MUMMIES THE DESOLATE CITY

My spirit is a pestilential city,
With misery triumphant everywhere,
Glutted with baffled hopes and human pity.
Strange agonies make quiet lodgement there;
Its sewers bursting ooze up from below
And spread their loathsome substance through its lanes,
Flooding all areas with their evil flow
And blocking all the motion of its veins.

Above its walls the air is heavy-wet,
Brooding in fever mood and hanging thick
Round empty tower and broken minaret,
Settling upon the tree tops stricken sick
And withered under its contagious breath.
Their leaves are shrivelled silver, parched decay,
Like wilting creepers trailing underneath
The chalky yellow of a tropic way.
Round crumbling tower and leaning minaret,
The air hangs fever-filled and heavy-wet.

And all its many fountains no more spurt;
Within the dammed-up tubes they tide and foam,
Around the misty morn, and silted dirt,
And weep against the soft and liquid loam.
And so the city's ways are washed no more;
All is neglected and decayed
Within the, and the fountains spout
Clean waters beat against its high-walled shore
In furious force, but cannot enter in;
The suffocated fountains spout
and silted
The foamy rage against the silted dirt.
Beneath the ebon gloom of mounting rocks
The little pools lie poisonously still,
And birds come to the edge in forlorn flocks,
And utter sudden, plaintive notes and shrill,
Pecking at some gray-green substances;
But never do they dip their bills and drink.
They twitter, and beneath the mournful trees,
And fretfully flit to and from the brink,
In little gray-brown, green-and-purple flocks,
Beneath the jet-gloom of the mounting rocks.
And green-eyed moths of curious design,
With gold-black wings and rarely silver-dotted,
On nests of flowers among those rocks
AUGMENTED BY some of the pretty flowers reline,
Bold, burning blossoms, strangely leopard-spotted,
But breathing deadly poison from their lips.
And every lovely moth that wanders by,
And of the blossoms fatal nectar sips,

Is doomed to drooping stupor, there to die;
All green-eyed moths of curious design
That on the fiercely-burning blooms recline.

Oh cold as death is all the loveliness,
That breathes out of the strangeness of the scene,
And sickening like a skeleton's caress,
Of clammy clinging fingers, long and lean.
Above it float a host of yellow flies,
Circling motion
Whirling in changeless... in their place,
That came down snow-thick from the freighted skies,
Swarming across the gluey floor of space.
Oh cold as death is all the loveliness,
And sickening like a skeleton's caress.

There was a time, when, happy with the birds,
The little children clapped their hands and laughed;
And midst the clouds the glad winds heard their words
And blew down all the merry ways to waft
The music through the scented fields of flowers.
Oh sweet were children's voices in those days,
Before the fall of pestilential showers
That drove them forth far from the city's ways;
Now never, nevermore their silver words
Will mingle with the golden of the birds.

Gone, gone forever the familiar forms
To which the city once so dearly clung,
Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms
And lost to me like lovely songs unsung.
Yet life, still lingers, questioningly strange,
Timid and quivering, naked and alone,
Against the cycle of disruptive change,
Though all the fond familiar forms are gone,
Forever gone, the fond familiar forms;
Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms.

My spirit is a pestilential city,
With misery triumphant everywhere,
Glutted with baffled hopes and lost to pity,
Strange agonies make quiet lodgment there.
Its bursting sewers ooze up from below,
And spread their loathsome substance through its lanes,
Flooding all areas with their evil flow,
And blocking all the motion of its veins.
Its life is sealed to love or hope or pity,
My spirit is a pestilential city.

Above its walls the air is heavy-wet,
Brooding in fever mood and hanging thick
Round empty tower and broken minaret,
Settling upon the tree-tops stricken sick
And withered in its dank contagious breath.
Their leaves are shrivelled silver, parched decay,
Like wilting creepers trailing underneath
The chalky yellow of a tropic way:
Round crumbling tower and leaning minaret,
The air hangs fever-filled and heavy-wet.

And all its many fountains no more spurt,
Within the dammed-up tubes they tide and foam
Around the drifting sludge and silted dirt,
And weep against the soft and liquid loam.
And so the city's ways are washed no more,

2

All is neglected and decayed within,
Clean waters beat against its high-walled shore
In furious force, but cannot enter in.
The suffocated fountains cannot spurt,
They foam and weep against the silted dirt.

Beneath the ebon gloom of mounting rocks,
The little pools lie poinsonously still,
And birds come to the edge in forlorn flocks,
And utter sudden plaintive notes and shrill,
Pecking at fatty grey-green substances,
But never do they dip their bills and drink.
They twitter, sad beneath the mournful trees,
And fretfully flit to and from the brink,
In little dull brown, green-and-purple flocks,
Beneath the jet-gloom of the mounting rocks.

And green-eyed moths of curious design,
With gold-black wings and brightly silver-dotted,
On nests of flowers among those rocks recline--
Bold, burning blossoms, strangely leopard-spotted,
But breathing deadly poison at the lips.
Oh, every lovely moth that wanders by,
And on the blossoms fatal nectar sips,
Is doomed in drooping stupor there to die--
All green-eyed moths of curious design
That on the fiercely-burning rocks recline.

3

That breathes out of the strangeness of the scene,
And sickening like a skeleton's caress,
With clammy clinging fingers, long and lean.
Above it afloat a host of yellow flies,
Circling in changeless motion in their place,
Snow-thick and mucid in the drooping skies,
Swarming across the glassy floor of space:
Oh cold as death is all the loveliness
And sickening like a skeleton's caress.

There was a time when, happy with the birds,
The little children clapped their hands and laughed,
And midst the clouds the glad winds heard their words,
And blew down all the merry ways to waft
Their music to the scented fields of flowers.
Oh sweet were children's voices in those days,
Before the fall of pestilential showers,
That drove them forth from all the city's ways!
Now never, nevermore their silver words
Will mingle with the golden of the birds.

Gone, gone forever the familiar forms,
To which my spirit once so dearly clung,
Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms,
And lost away like lovely songs unsung.
Yet life still lingers, questioningly strange,
Timid and quivering, naked and alone,
Biding the cycle of disruptive change,
Though all the fond familiar forms are gone
Forever gone, the fond familiar forms,

2

And green-eyed moths of curious design,
With gold-black wings and brightly silver-dotted,
On nests of flowers among those rocks recline--
Bold, burning blossoms, strangely leopard-spotted,
But breathing deadly poison at the lips.
Oh, every lovely moth that wanders by,
And on the blossoms fatal nectar sips,
Is doomed in drooping stupor there to die--
All green-eyed moths of curious design
That on the fiercely-burning rocks recline.
Oh cold as death is all the loveliness

3

That breathes out of the strangeness of the scene,
And sickening like a skeleton's caress,
With clammy clinging fingers, long and lean.
Above it float a host of yellow flies,
Circling in changeless motion in their place,
Snow-thick and mucid in the drooping skies,
Swarming across the glassy floor of space:
Oh cold as death is all the loveliness
And sickening like a skeleton's caress.

Gone, gone forever the familiar forms,
To which my spirit once so dearly clung,
Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms,
And lost away like lovely songs unsung.
Yet life still lingers, questioningly strange,
Timid and quivering, naked and alone,
Biding the cycle of disruptive change,
Though all the fond familiar forms are gone —
Forever gone, the fond familiar forms,

Above its walls the air is heavy-wet,
Brooding in fever mood and hanging thick
Round empty tower and broken minaret,
Settling upon the tree-tops stricken sick
And withered in its dank contagious breath.
Their leaves are shrivelled silver, pached decay,
Like wilting creepers trailing underneath
The chalky yellow of a tropic way:
Round crumbling tower and leaning minaret,
The air hangs fever-filled and heavy-wet.

Beneath the ebon gloom of mounting rocks,
The little pools lie poisonously still,
And birds come to the edge in forlorn flocks,
And utter sudden plaintive notes and shrill,
Pecking at fatty grey-green substances,
But never do they dip their bills and drink.
They twitter, sad beneath the mournful trees,
And fretfully flit to and from the brink,
In little dull brown, green-and-purple flocks,
Beneath the jet-gloom of the mounting rocks.

That breathes out of the strangeness of the scene,
And sickening like a skeleton's caress,
With clammy clinging fingers, long and lean.
Above it float a host of yellow flies,
Circling in changeless motion in their place,
Snow-thick and mucid in the drooping skies,
Swarming across the glassy floor of space;
Oh cold as death is all the loveliness
And sickening like a skeleton's caress.

Gone, gone forever the familiar forms,
To which my spirit once so dearly clung,
Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms,
And lost away like lovely songs unsung.
Yet life still lingers, questioningly strange,
Timid and quivering, naked and alone,
Biding the cycle of disruptive change,
Though all the fond familiar forms are gone
Forever gone, the fond familiar forms,
Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms.

Above its walls the air is heavy-wet,
Brooding in fever mood and hanging thick
Round empty tower and broken minaret,
Settling upon the tree-tops stricken sick
And withered in its dank contagious breath.
Their leaves are shrivelled silver, pashed decay,
Like wilting creepers trailing underneath
The chalky yellow of a tropic way:
Round crumbling tower and leaning minaret,
The air hangs fever-filled and heavy-wet.
And all its many fountains no more spurt,
Within the dammed-up tubes they tide and foam
Around the drifting sludge and silted dirt,
And weep against the soft and liquid loam.
And so the city's ways are washed no more,

The Desolate City p. 1

THE DESOLATE CITY

My spirit is a pestilential city,
With misery triumphant everywhere,
Glutted with baffled hopes and human pity.
Strange agonies make quiet lodgement there:
Its sewers bursting ooze up from below
And spread their loathsome substance through its lanes,
Flooding all areas with their evil flow
And blocking all the motions of its veins:
Its life is sealed to love or hope or pity,
My spirit is a pestilential city.

Above its walls the air is heavy-wet,
Brooding in fever mood and hanging thick
Round empty tower and broken minaret,
Settling upon the tree tops stricken sick
And withered under its contagious breath.
Their leaves are shrivelled silver, parched decay,
Like wilting creepers trailing underneath
The chalky yellow of atropic way.
Round crumbling tower and leaning minaret,
The air hangs fever-filled and heavy-wet.

The Desolate City p. 2

And all its many fountains no more spurt;
Within the damned-up tubes they tide and foam,
Around the drifted sludge and silted dirt,
And weep against the soft and liquid loam.
And so the city's ways are washed no more,
All is neglected and decayed within,
Clean waters beat against its high-walled shore
In furious force, but cannot enter in:
The suffocated fountains cannot spurt,
They foam and rage against the silted dirt.

Beneath the ebon gloom of mounting rocks
The little pools lie poisonously still,
And birds come to the edge in forlorn flocks,
And utter sudden, plaintive notes and shrill,
Pecking at strangely gray-green substances;
But never do they dip their bills and drink.
They twitter, sad beneath the mournful trees,
And fretfully flit to and from the brink,
In little gray-brown, green-and-purple flocks,
Beneath the jet-gloom of the mounting rocks.

The Desolate City p. 3

And green-eyes moths of curious design,
With gold-black wings and rarely silver-dotted,
On nests of flowers among those rocks recline,
Bold, burning blossoms, strangely leopard-spotted,
But breathing deadly poison from their lips.
And every lovely moth that wanders by,
And of the blossoms fatal nectar sips,
Is doomed to drooping stupor, there to die;
All green-eyed moths of curious design
That on the fiercely-burning blooms recline.

Oh cold as death is all the loveliness,
That breathes out of the strangeness of the scene,
And sickening like a skeleton's caress,
Of clammy clinging fingers, long and lean.
Above it float a host of yellow flies,
Circling in changeless motion in their place,
That came down snow-thick from the freighted skies,
Swarming across the gluey floor of space:
Oh cold as death is all the loveliness,
And sickening like a skeleton's caress.

The Desolate City p. 4

There was a time, when, happy with the birds,
The little children clapped their hands and laughed;
And midst the clouds the glad winds heard their words
And blew down all the merry ways to waft
The music through the scented fields of flowers.
Oh sweet were children's voices in those days,
Before the fall of pestilential showers,
That drove them forth far from the city's ways:
Now never, nevermore their silver words
Will mingle with the golden of the birds.

Gone, gone forever the familiar forms
To which the city once so dearly clung,
Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms
And lost away like lovely songs unsung.
Yet life still lingers, questioningly strange,
Timid and quivering, naked and alone,
Against the cycle of disruptive change,
Though all the fond familiar forms are gone,
Forever gone, the fond familiar forms;
Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms.