It is strange that a little mud Should echo with sounds, syllables, and letters, Should rise up and call a mountain Popocatapetl, And a green-leafed wood Oleander. These are the ghosts of invisible things; There is no Lapland, no Helen and no Hector, And the Reindeer is a darkening of the brain, And Oleander is but Oleander. Mary Magdalena and the vine Lachryma Christi Were like ghosts up the ghost of Vesuvius, As I sat and drank wine with the soldiers, As I sat in the Inn on the mountain, Watching the shadows in my mind. The mind of the people is like mud, Where are the imperishable things, The ghosts that flicker in the brain-- Silent women, orchids, and prophesying Kings, Dreams, trees, and water's bright babblings! SONG Gently, sorrowfully sang the maid Sowing the ploughed field over, And her song was only: 'Come, O my lover!' Strangely, strangely shone the light, Stilly wound the river: 'Thy love is a dead man, He'll come back never.' Sadly, sadly passed the maid The fading dark hills over; Still her song far, far away said: 'Come, O my lover!' THE PRINCESS The stone-grey roses by the desert's rim Are soft-edged shadows on the moonlit sand, Grey are the broken walls of Khangavar, That haunt of nightingales, whose voices are Fountains that bubble in the dream-soft Moon. Shall the Gazelles with moonbeam pale bright feet Entering the vanished gardens sniff the air-- Some scent may linger of that ancient time, Musician's song, or poet's passionate rhyme, The Princess dead, still wandering love-sick there. A Princess pale and cold as mountain snow, In cool, dark chambers sheltered from the sun, With long dark lashes and small delicate hands: All Persia sighed to kiss her small red mouth Until they buried her in shifting sand. And the Gazelles shall flit by in the Moon And never shake the frail Tree's lightest leaves, And moonlight roses perfume the pale Dawn Until the scarlet life that left her lips Gathers its shattered beauty in the sky. PEACE In low chalk hills the great King's body lay, And bright streams fell, tinkling like polished tin, As though they carried off his armoury, And spread it glinting through his wide domain. Old bearded soldiers sat and gazed dim-eyed At the strange brightness flowing under trees, And saw his sword flashing in ancient battles, And drank, and swore, and trembled helplessly. And bright-haired maidens dipped their cold white arms, And drew them glittering colder, whiter, still; The sky sparkled like the dead King's blue eye Upon the sentries that were dead as trees. His shining shield lay in an old grey town, And white swans sailed so still and dreamfully, They seemed the thoughts of those white, peaceful hills Mirrored that day within his glazing eyes. And in the square the pale cool butter sold, Cropped from the daisies sprinkled on the downs, And old wives cried their wares, like queer day owls, Piercing the old men's sad and foolish dreams.