Death-weariness of old returns. White, white blossom, Fall of the shattered cups day on day: Is there anything here that is not ancient, That has not bloomed a thousand years ago? Under the glare of the white-hot day, Under the restless wind-rakes of the winter, White blossom or white snow scattered, And beneath them, dark, the graves. Dark graves never changing, White dream drifting, never changing above them: O that the white scroll of heaven might be rolled up, And the naked red lightning thrust at the smouldering earth! 

 MIDSUMMER DREAMS  (Symphony in White and Blue)    I There is a tall white weed growing at the top of this sand hill: In the grass It is very still. It lifts its heavy bracts of flattened bloom Against the sky Hazily grey with brume. Out over yonder boats pass And the swallows Flatten themselves on the grass. The lake is silvering beneath the heat. The wind's feet Touch lazily each crest, Like white gulls slow flapping To windward. One rose white cloud slowly disengages, loosening itself, And stands Above the larkspur-coloured water: Like Dione's daughter Braiding up her wet hair with her pale, hands. II The moon puts out her face at a rift between the trees, Which do not lift one drooping leaf, this night of June. There is no lazy breeze to set them clashing adrift. Thin gleams of silver rise and break in the air, Fireflies—here and there. Forest of blue masses suddenly quivering with rapid points of white, Are the forests beneath the sea where no breeze passes As still as you to-night? The moon puts out her face at a rift between the trees; Through my window, the bed cut evenly with diagonal shafts of light, Is a boat rocking out adrift. Under it bend the silver tips of the dark blue coral trees, And fireflies like glass fish Drift and ripple upwards in the breeze. III We are drifting slowly, you and I, To where the clouds are lifting High-fretted towers in the sky: Palaces of ivory, Which we look at dreamily. Over our sail Frail white clouds, Drift as slowly Over the undulant pale blue silk of the water, As we. We are racing swiftly, you and I, The sun darts one firm track Through the blue-black Of the crinkled water. Gold spirals spattering, flashing, The water heaves and curls away at our bow, A mad fish splashing. We are rocked together, you and I, To this undulant movement. White cloud with blue water blent, Cloud dipping down to wave its lazy head, Wave curling under cloud its cloudy blue. I and you, All alone, alone, at last. I hold you fast. IV The midsummer clouds were piling up upon the south horizon, Mountains of drifting translucence in the larkspur-fields of the sky: Ascending and toppling in crumbled ravines, dribbling down chasms of 

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