long-forgotten suns.
Unlock the door, then; down the dark stone stair
Grope in the taperâs wavering light to where
The cobwebbed bottle slumbers; gently liftâ
Gently as new-born babeâlest you should shift
The cloudy sediment; then thief-like slink
Upstairs again and in the pantry sink
Knock off the sealing-wax, then draw with care,
Decant, and set in a warm room to air.
Then shall we sit and sip in candle light
And let the storm roar out its heart all night.
Rhapsody on a Pink-Iced Cake
To Gertrude Freeman
When Earth arose out of the Flood
And sang before the throne of God,
So shone on Ararat sublime,
Bright in the second dawn of Time,
The rosy Ark, its roofing laid
With beam of ruby, tile of jade,
And the bright bulwarks crusted oâer
With silver limpets from the floor
Of the drowned Earth. So Solomon,
Dreaming towards evening alone,
In the clear kingdom of his brain
Wrought that first temple without stain,
Too pure for stone or the rough grain
Of cedar or the dross of gold.
And Homer, blind and very old,
Along the wide plains of his thought
Saw battles and long sieges fought
Round ramparts rosy even as these.
So soared above the glooming trees
That tower of laughter and of tears
Where Beauty slept a hundred years.
And, built of sweetness and pure light,
So love and hope and heartâs-delight
And all the lovely things of dream,
Hovering an instant on the stream
Of Manâs ambitious spirit, glow
And vanish like an April snow.
The Eve of the Fair
Green grows the grass in these well-watered meadows
For here there bubbles from a hundred springs
The bright Clitumnus under dappled shadows
Of slender poplars where the faint breeze sings
And the green-showering tresses of weeping willows;
And all the pool is floored with woven weed
And caverns lined with glimmering mossy pillows
And pale blue rocks. Those bubbling waters feed
Rich farms, half-hidden behind a feathery screen
Of silver olive-boughs and trailing vines
Heavy with clusters purple, red, and green,
Soon to be trodden to red and golden wines.
And bounding either edge of the green plain,
The violet mountains lift their peaceful crowns,
Soaring like waves crest above crest again,
Still peopled by remote and ancient towns,â
Lofty Spoleto with its rocky gorge
Spanned by the aqueduct, and many a keep,
Spello and Montefalco, towns that urge
Stone street and scowling palace up the steep
And set a crown of towers on many hills,
Leaping abrupt and stark against the sky
And turbid at noon and eve with clanging bells.
From these and all the villages that lie
Scattered upon the plain, the countryfolk
Are flocking towards Foligno for the fair,
Bringing their goods. With song and curse and joke
They swelter along in the dry and dusty glare.
All day along the parched and dazzling roads
That straggle to the town from every part,
Oxen and mules and horses draw their loads
In wain and barrow and brightly painted cart.
While in the town all day, along the streets
And in that empty space within the walls
Edged with cool-shaded trees and long stone seats,
A crowd of busy folk are building stalls;
Till the place rings with hammering and knocking
And cracking whips and jangling harness-bells
And rumbling wheels of all the traffic flocking
In from the teeming plains and those blue hills.
Still with the growing crowd the din grows louder
With shouts of drivers, wagons turning, backing,
And stamping hooves that churn the dust to powder
And sweating men unloading and unpacking,
Spreading the wares in clusters on the grass
All duly planned like little towns with walls
And lanes and streets to let the buyers pass,
Or carefully disposed upon the stalls.
And carts and mules come pushing through the throng
Or scarlet wagon like a stranded hulk
That great white oxen slowly haul along
Heaving the yoke with all their noble bulk,
Patient, with branching horns and deep calm eyes
Like