She who was Aphrodite, tho’ she gives Love to each heart that lives, Gives and receives not. She, of love the breath, Doomed now with utter death.
On the wrist a paroquet, Motley on the shoulder, We exist for joy of life, Never growing older.
Dancing down the lane of years, Rosy garlands trailing, Who would pause for time or tears, Barren days bewailing.
Brighter burden never were Than the smiles we scatter, Loving deeds and laughing love, This is our great matter.
And the wise who scorn our bells Mate with melancholy, We are wiser than the wise, Holding hands with folly.
Perhaps the world is tired of pageantries, And all the weary women called the Hours, Jaded with jewels, shall exchange for flowers Their badge of pride. In violet harmonies, With sweet blue veils of silence o’er their eyes, They shall return to Spring’s most languorous bowers; And Light and Beauty shall come down as showers Releasing life from all its pedantries.
Only the bloomy purple hill to see Thro’ half-closed lids, and only to be blind With asphodils! Shall these things ever be? Surely the time is ripe to live for this Dawn, springing radiant from her sleep to find A world of lovers waiting for her kiss.
My dark, wild woman of the braes, I know your heart, I know your ways, I know the raw, sweet food you taste, I love the colours ’round your waist.
Ribbons of green and gold you wear, Threaded about your shadowy hair, My colours--and your eyes are mine, Dark as the deeps of love--and wine.
I wake with you at budding Dawn, Leaving this life of dew-spread lawn, To join your spirit in the wild, Your brother, lover, or your child.
Take me upon your savage breast, Teach me your calms and your unrest. Take me, I know the jungle cry, Teach me your love, or let me die.
My heart’s a yellow butterfly That flutters down the road; A beggar, tricksy, dancing thing That scorns a fixed abode.
The aigrette of the thistle bloom Becomes the swinging sign Of merry hostelries, where I May pause awhile and dine.
The sky is lapis lazuli Bestrewn by clouds of pearl,-- Who would not be a butterfly Instead of just a girl?
He tasted dragon’s blood From the dark dragon tree, In those far islands where the mood Is faery-like and free.