And they look with terror in each other's eyes and part their hot hands stained with grasses and flowerstalks and are afraid of their kisses.

VIII EMBARQUEMENT POUR CYTHERE AFTER WATTEAU

 The mists have veiled the far end of the lake this sullen amber afternoon; our island is quite hidden, and the peaks hang wan as clouds above the ruddy haze.

 Come, give your hand that lies so limp, a tuberose among brown oak-leaves; put your hand in mine and let us leave this bank where we have lain the day long.

In the boat the naked oarsman stands. Let us walk faster, or do you fear to tear that brocaded dress in apricot and grey? Love, there are silk cushions in the stern maroon and apple-green, crocus-yellow, crimson, amber-grey.

 We will lie and listen to the waves slap soft against the prow, and watch the boy slant his brown body to the long oar-stroke.

 But, love, we are more beautiful than he. We have forgotten the grey sick yearning nights brushed off the old cobwebs of desire; we stand strong immortal as the slender brown boy who waits to row our boat to the island.

 But love how your steps drag. 

And what is this bundle of worn brocades I press so passionately to me? Old rags of the past, snippings of Helen's dress, of Melisande's, scarfs of old paramours rotted in the grave ages and ages since.

No lake the ink yawns at me from the writing table.

IX LA RUE DU TEMPS PASSE 

Far away where the tall grey houses fade A lamp blooms dully through the dusk, Through the effacing dusk that gently veils The traceried balconies and the wreaths Carved above the shuttered windows Of forgotten houses.

 Behind one of the crumbled garden walls A pale woman sits in drooping black And stares with uncomprehending eyes At the thorny angled twigs that bore Years ago in the moon-spun dusk One scarlet rose.

 In an old high room where the shadows troop On tiptoe across the creaking boards A shrivelled man covers 

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