hearts that break In shining clusters round the silent dead, A diadem of stars at feet and head, The glory dazzles . . . but they do not wake . . .

O golden flowers the moon goes gathering In magic gardens of her fairy-land, While splendid angels of the sunset stand Watching in flaming circles wing to wing . . .

Frail golden flowers that perish at a breath, That wither in the hands of light, and die When bright dawn wakens in a silver sky. Pale flowers of passion . . . delicate flowers of death.

 

 

 

 

In the South

I was pale and sad in the South like the olive-trees That droop their silver heads by the dusty roads, And are grave and cold and grey in spite of the sun . . . In the veils of rose and blue that the bright dawn spun Day wrapped me round in vain! I longed for the lovers and friends I had left behind, I longed for the North again.

I was deaf to song, and even to beauty blind, Blind to the magic woof that summer weaves, While roses beat their pearl and ruby leaves Against my window pane . . . And orange flowers so passionately white, So richly perfumed, pined for my delight: Only my faint heart sighed, In pity when the glory waned and died, For all that lovely life unsatisfied!

I was pale and sad in the South like the olive-trees That droop their silver heads by the dusty roads . . .

 

 

 

 

Spring in the South

Beautiful as some rich embroidery The valley lies in verdant amplitude, Great mountains—like old merchants—o'er it brood— And as a lovely woman languidly Trailing her long blue robes, so comes the sea To touch it softly in a wistful mood . . . The sky forgets her starry multitude, Seeing how fair mere earthly flowers can be!

Glad country where the wayward feet of Spring, Moving in mystic dances, bring desire, New miracles of beauty every day . . . Where Love and sweet Delight fly wing to wing Forgetful as in dreams, that bright 

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