James Elroy Flecker

O pouring westering streams Shouting that I have leapt the mountain bar, Down curve on curve my journey's white way gleams -

SCENE: A street of that village. Three men with ropes, accosted by a stranger. THE STRANGER

My friend the Sun--like all my friends Inconstant, lovely, far away - Is out, and bright, and condescends

Evening falls on the smoky walls, And the railings drip with rain, And I will cross the old river

Helen of Troy has sprung from Hell To claim her ancient throne, So we have bidden friends farewell

(from Baudelaire.) The night Don Juan came to pay his fees To Charon, by the caverned water's shore,

The song of a man who was dead Ere any had heard of his song, Or had seen this his ultimate song,

Soft is the collied night, and cool The wind about the garden pool. Here will I dip my burning hand

Four great gates has the city of Damascus, And four Grand Wardens, on their spears reclining, All day long stand like tall stone men

Come, let me kiss your wistful face Where Sorrow curves her bow of pain, And live sweet days and bitter days

from Leconte de Lisle Night on the bloodstained snow: the wind is chill: And there a thousand tombless warriors lie,

I rose from dreamless hours and sought the morn That beat upon my window: from the sill I watched sweet lands, where Autumn light newborn

When all my gentle friends had gone I wandered in the night alone: Beneath the green electric glare

In those good days when we were young and wise, You spake to music, you with the thoughtful eyes, And God looked down from heaven, pleased to hear

JOSEPH Mary, art thou the little maid Who plucked me flowers in Spring?

O grandest of the Angels, and most wise, O fallen God, fate-driven from the skies, Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Quien hubiese tal ventura? The strangest of adventures, That happen by the sea,

O eyes that strip the souls of men! There came to me the Magdalen. Her blue robe with a cord was bound,

Knowest thou the land where bloom the lemon trees, And darkly gleam the golden oranges? A gentle wind blows down from that blue sky;

I had a friend who battled for the truth With stubborn heart and obstinate despair, Till all his beauty left him, and his youth,

I am afraid to think about my death, When it shall be, and whether in great pain I shall rise up and fight the air for breath

"But who art thou, with curious beauty graced, O woman, stamped with some bright heavenly seal Why go thy feet on wings, and in such haste?"

When you have wearied of the valiant spires of this County Town, Of its wide white streets and glistening museums, and black monastic walls, Of its red motors and lumbering trains, and self-sufficient people,

I listened to the hunger-hearted clown, Sadder than he: I heard a woman sing, - A tall dark woman in a scarlet gown -

They will trample our gardens to mire, they will bury our city in fire; Our women await their desire, our children the clang of the chain. Our grave-eyed judges and lords they will bind by the neck with cords,

Satan, to thee be praise upon the Height Where thou wast king of old, and in the night Of Hell, where thou dost dream on silently.

Let me not know how sins and sorrows glide Along the sombre city of our rage, Or why the sons of men are heavy-eyed.

High and solemn mountains guard Riouperoux, Small untidy village where the river drives a mill: Frail as wood anemones, white and frail were you,

(A Legend of the 'gean) 'Who are you, Sea Lady, And where in the seas are we?

A linnet who had lost her way Sang on a blackened bough in Hell, Till all the ghosts remembered well

I walked with Maisie long years back The streets of Camden Town, I splendid in my suit of black,

From Heaven's Gate to Hampstead Heath Young Bacchus and his crew Came tumbling down, and o'er the town

Aflatun and Aristu and King Iskander Are Plato, Aristotle, Alexander. Sultan Iskander sat him down

It was no sooner than this morn That first I found you there, Deep in a field of southern corn

(a Greek Legend.) Zacho the King rode out of old (And truth is what I tell)

Day breaks on England down the Kentish hills, Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills, Day of my dreams, O day!

Over the moonless land of Bathrolaire Rises at night, when revelry begins, A white unreal orb, a sun that spins,

Three Kings have come to Bethlehem With a trailing star in front of them. MARY

I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep Beyond the village which men still call Tyre, With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep

Had I the power To Midas given of old To touch a flower

Now the sweet Dawn on brighter fields afar Has walked among the daisies, and has breathed The glory of the mountain winds, and sheathed

There lies a photograph of you Deep in a box of broken things. This was the face I loved and knew

There lies afar behind a western hill The Town without a Market, white and still; For six feet long and not a third as high

While I translated Baudelaire, Children were playing out in the air. Turning to watch, I saw the light

Far out across Carnarvon bay, Beneath the evening waves, The ancient dead begin their day

I who am dead a thousand years, And wrote this sweet archaic song, Send you my words for messengers

We are they who come faster than fate: we are they who ride early or late: We storm at your ivory gate: Pale Kings of the Sunset, beware! Not on silk nor in samet we lie, not in curtained solemnity die

We that were friends to-night have found A sudden fear, a secret flame: I am on fire with that soft sound

(A Ghazel) How splendid in the morning glows the lily: with what grace he throws His supplication to the rose: do roses nod the head, Yasmin?