Lovely as on the boughs of spring
Beneath the fallen suns of Ming,
There bloom the flowers of the plum
Where bloomless autumn shall not come
...
I am the master of strange spells
Whereby the past is made tomorrow,
And April blows in fields long fallow,
And Dis unseals Hyblaean wells.
...
As though a thousand vampires, from the day
Fleeing unseen, oppressed that nightly deep,
The straitening and darkened skies of sleep
Closed on the dreamland dale in which I lay.
...
Low on the lilac breast of eve
The yellow rose of sunset lies...
Beneath my cheek, with little sighs,
I feel thy happy bosom heave.
...
Ye that see in darkness
When the moon is drowned
In the coiling fen-mist
Far along the ground—
...
Sable-robed, at noon,
They passed beneath red cherries
Ripening with June.
...
November's winy sunset leaves,
Deep in the silver heavens far,
One ruby-hearted star
That lit the summer's moon-forsaken eves.
...
Unshaken still, through wind and rain,
Red autumn rears her blazonry.
But, ah! the barren grief and pain
Of loveliness unshared with thee!
...
Dream not the dead will wait,
Slow-crumbling in the allotted ground,
Nor rise except to some sonorous trump
And scaring splendors of the doomsday sun:
...
Blithe love, what dubious ponderings bemuse
Thy lover's mind! . . . In me thy memories are
As attar in some alabaster jar . . .
Wholly must I the rose-drawn essence lose
...