downwards through the afternoon. This turf is not like turf: It is a smooth dry carpet of velvet, Embroidered with brown patterns of needles and cones. These trees are not like trees: They are innumerable feathery pagoda-umbrellas, Stiffly ungracious to the wind, Teetering on red-lacquered stems. In the evening I listen to the winds' lisping, While the conflagrations of the sunset flicker and clash behind me, Flamboyant crenellations of glory amid the charred ebony boles. In the night the fiery nightingales Shall clash and trill through the silence: Like the voices of mermaids crying From the sea. Long ago has the moon whelmed this uncompleted temple. Stars swim like gold fish far above the black arches. Far let the timid feet of dawn fly to catch me: I will abide in this forest of pines: For I have unveiled naked beauty, And the things that she whispered to me in the darkness, Are buried deep in my heart. Now let the black tops of the pine-trees break like a spent wave, Against the grey sky: These are tombs and memorials and temples and altars sun-kindled for me. 

 GOLDEN SYMPHONY I Seen from afar, the city To-day is like a golden cloud: Strayed from the sky and moulded Into dim motionless towers. Music is passing far off: Music serenely Is climbing up and vanishing On the long grey stairways of the sky, In fanlike rays of light. Now it falls slowly, Careering, toppling, Shivering and quivering like burnished glass or laburnum-blossom, Golden cascades. Peace: now let the music Sound from further away, Red bells out of memory's Blue dream of regret. Seen from afar, the city To-day is like a fleet of sails: Breaking the foam of dark forests, In which I have strayed so long. They march together slowly, The golden temple terraces, Against the dark remembrance Of my pools of despair. O golden angelus that sounded prolonging uncertain memories, I have seen the swallows hovering to you and followed their dark trails of passage. The gates of the city lie open, And the whole world goes homeward, Full-pulsing bells in the foreground, Catching my soul with them On where the sun soars broadly through the incense-dome of the sky. II High chimes from the belfry; The noonday approaches With its golden apparel Rustling about its feet. High dreams of my city, Where we, a band of brothers, Build our proud dream of beauty Before we fall into dust. The golden days have come for us: With mandolins, sword-thrusts, laughter. Even the very dust of the street Grows gold beneath our feet. Bronze bell-notes poured from deep blue wells: Molten gold out of the sky. Pillars of yellow marble On the summits of which the gods sleep. Now we are swimming; About us a great golden halo Vibrates from us 

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