O to scale the garden wall and fling my life into the bowl of an adventure, stake on the silver dice the past and future forget the odds and lying in the garden sing in time to the flutter of the waiting stars madness of love for the slender ivory white of her body hidden among dark silks where is languidest the attar weighted air.

 To drink in one strong jessamine scented draught sadness of flesh, twining madness of the night.

O such a night for scaling garden walls; yet I lie alone in my narrow bed and stare at the blank walls, forever afraid, of a watchdog's barking.

 Granada

IX

Rain-swelled the clouds of winter drag themselves like purple swine across the plain. On the trees the leaves hang dripping fast dripping away all the warm glamour all the ceremonial paint of gorgeous bountiful autumn.

 The black wet boles are vacant and dead. Among the trampled leaves already mud rot the husks of the rich nuts. On the hills the snow has frozen the last pale crocuses and the winds have robbed the smell of the thyme.

 Down the wet streets of the town from doors where the light spills out orange over the shining irregular cobbles and dances in ripples on gurgling gutters; sounds the zambomba.

 In the room beside the slanting street round the tray of glowing coals in their stained blue clothes, dusty with the dust of workshops and factories, the men and boys sit quiet; their large hands dangle idly or rest open on their knees and they talk in soft tired voices. Crosslegged in a corner a child with brown hands       sounds the zambomba.

 Outside down the purple street stopping sometimes at a door, breathing deep the heady wine of sunset, stride with clattering steps those to whom the time will never come of work-stiffened unrestless hands.

 The rain-swelled clouds of winter roam like a herd of swine over the town and the dark plain. 

The wineshops full of shuffling and talk, tanned faces bright eyes, moist lips moulding desires blow breaths of strong wine in the faces of passers-by.

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