And when the fireflies mix their circling glow Through the dark plants, then gently might I know Your lips, light as the wings of the dragon-flies.... --Merely dreams, fluttering in my eyes.... [YOU THOUGHT I HAD FORGOTTEN] You thought I had forgotten. Well, I had! (Although I never guessed I could forget Those few great moments when we both went mad.) The other day at someone's tea we met, Smiling gayly, bowed, and went our several ways, Complacent with successful coldness.--Yet Suddenly I was back in the old days Before you felt we ought to drift apart. It was some trick--the way your eyebrows raise, Your hands--some vivid trifle. With a start Then I remembered how I lived alone, Writing bad poems and eating out my heart All for your beauty.--How the time has flown! VENICE In a sunset glowing of crimson and gold, She lies, the glory of the world, A beached king's galley, whose sails are furled, Who is hung with tapestries rich and old. Beautiful as a woman is she, A woman whose autumn of life is here, Proud and calm at the end of the year With the grace that now is majesty. The sleeping waters bathe her sides, The warm, blue streams of the Adrian Sea; She dreams and drowses languorously, Swayed in the swaying of the tides. She is a goddess left for us, Veiled with the softening veils of time; Her blue-veined breasts are now sublime, Her moulded torso glorious. The pity that we must come and go--! While the old gold and the marble stays, Forever gleaming its soft strong blaze, Calm in the early evening glow. And still the sensitive silhouettes Of the gondolas pass and leave no track, Light on the tides as lilies, and black In the rippling waters of long sunsets. THE NEW MACABER The pleasant graveyard of my soul With sentimental cypress trees And flowers is filled, that I may stroll In meditation, at my ease. The little marble stones are lost In flowers surging from the dead; Nor is there any mournful ghost To wail until the night is sped. And while night rustles through the trees, Dragging the stars along, I know The moon is rising on the breeze, Quivering as in a river's flow. And ah! that moon of silver sheen! It is my heart hung in the sky; And no clouds ever float between The grave-flowers and my heart on high. I do not read upon each stone The name that once was carven there; I merely note new blossoms blown And breathe the perfume of the air. Thus walk I through my wonderland While all the evening is atune, Beneath the cypress trees that stand Like candles to the barren moon. TO WAR The music beats, up the chasmed street, Then flares from around the curve; The cheers break out from the waving crowd: --Our soldiers march, superb! Over the track-lined city street The young men, the grinning men, pass.