cry: “Love! Love! will she hear? will she hear?” O heart, she will hear, by and by, When we part, when for ever we part.

 

FÊTES GALANTES.

AFTER PAUL VERLAINE. 

 

MANDOLINE,

THE singers of serenades Whisper their faded vows Unto fair listening maids Under the singing boughs.

Tircis, Aminte, are there, Clitandre is over-long, And Damis for many a fair Tyrant makes many a song.

Their short vests, silken and bright, Their long pale silken trains, Their elegance of delight, Twine soft blue silken chains.

And the mandolines and they, Faintlier breathing, swoon Into the rose and grey Ecstasy of the moon.

 

DANS L’ALLÉE.

AS in the age of shepherd king and queen, Painted and frail amid her nodding bows, Under the sombre branches, and between The green and mossy garden-ways she goes, With little mincing airs one keeps to pet A darling and provoking perroquet. Her long-trained robe is blue, the fan she holds With fluent fingers girt with heavy rings, So vaguely hints of vague erotic things That her eye smiles, musing among its folds. —Blonde too, a tiny nose, a rosy mouth, Artful as that sly patch that makes more sly, In her divine unconscious pride of youth, The slightly simpering sparkle of the eye.

 

CYTHÈRE.

BY favourable breezes fanned, A trellised arbour is at hand To shield us from the summer airs;

The scent of roses, fainting sweet, Afloat upon the summer heat, Blends with the perfume that she wears.

True to the promise her eyes gave, She ventures all, and her mouth rains A dainty fever through my veins;

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