friendship, The flame, the autumn, and the green rose of love Fought out their strife here, 'tis a place of wonder; Where these have been, meet 'tis, the ground is holy. IX  (AU SALON)  Her grave, sweet haughtiness Pleaseth me, and in like wise Her quiet ironies. Others are beautiful, none more, some less. I suppose, when poetry comes down to facts, When our souls are returned to the gods and the spheres they belong in, Here in the every-day where our acts Rise up and judge us; I suppose there are a few dozen verities That no shift of mood can shake from us:  One place where we'd rather have tea (Thus far hath modernity brought us) "Tea" (Damn you!) Have tea, damn the Caesars, Talk of the latest success, give wing to some scandal, Garble a name we detest, and for prejudice? Set loose the whole consummate pack to bay like Sir Roger de Coverley's This our reward for our works, sic crescit gloria mundi: Some circle of not more than three that we prefer to play up to, Some few whom we'd rather please than hear the whole aegrum vulgrus Splitting its beery jowl a-meaowling our praises. Some certain peculiar things, cari laresque, penates, Some certain accustomed forms, the absolute unimportant. XII  (AU JARDIN)  O You away high there, you that lean From amber lattices upon the cobalt night, I am below amid the pine trees, Amid the little pine trees, hear me!  "The jester walked in the garden." Did he so? Well, there's no use your loving me That way, Lady; For I've nothing but songs to give you. I am set wide upon the world's ways To say that life is, some way, a gay thing, But you never string two days upon one wire But there'll come sorrow of it. And I loved a love once, Over beyond the moon there, I loved a love once, And, may be, more times, But she danced like a pink moth in the shrubbery. Oh, I know you women from the "other folk," And it'll all come right, O' Sundays.  "The jester walked in the garden." Did he so? 

O Lady of my heart, have

And glowing coals some art have

At hours when I, apart, have

That from the low sun dart, have

That unto Khadeeth's mart have

(BALLATA)

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