Warm are the winds out of the ebbing day,
Blowing the ships and the spring into the bay,
I smell the cherry blossoms falling gaily
In gardens of Cathay.
Paris, 1919
II
Like children on a sunny shore
The rhododendrons thrive
Which never any spring before
Have been so much alive.
Each metal bough benignly lit
With yellow candle flames;
The tree is holy, hallow it
With sacramental names.
Paris, 1919
III
Against my wall the summer weaves
Profundities of dusky leaves,
And many-petaled stars full-blown
In constellated whiteness sown;
I contemplate with lazy eyes
My small estate in Paradise,
And very comforting to me
Is this familiarity.
Paris, 1919
IV
Into the trembling air,
Calm on the sunset mist,
Sweetness of gardens where
The yellow slave boy kissed
The Sultan's daughter....
Shadow of tumbled hair
Shadow of hanging vine
Fountains of gold that twine
In singing water.
A secret I have heard
From the scarlet beak of the bird
That sings at the close of day,
Fills me with cold unrest
Under the open doors of the fiery west.
"O heart of clay,
O lips of dust,
O blue-shadowed wisteria vine;
Youth falls away
As petals must
Beneath the drooping leaves in the day's decline."
Paris, 1919
V
In gardens when the sun is set,
The air is heavy with the wet
Faint smell of leaves, and dark incense
Of peach-blossom and violet.
There is no lurking foe to fear,
Only the friendly ghosts are here
Of lazy youth and dozing age,
Who sat and mellowed year by year,
Until they merged with all the rest
Beneath the overhanging west,
And took their sleep with tranquil hearts
Safe in our Mother's mighty breast.
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