'Gainst crimson placques of cinnabar Shrills, like a diamond, dawn's last star. The gardens of my heart are green: The rain drips off the glistening leaves. In the humid gardens of my soul, The crimson peonies explode. I am like a drop of rose-flushed rain, Clinging to crimson petals of love. In the afternoon, over gold screens, I will brush the blue dust of my dreams. XII The pine, rough-bearded Pan of the woods Whispered in my ear his sleepy-sweet song. Like liquid fire it ran through my veins. Thus he piped: Sad, lonely son of the woods, Lie down in the long still grass and sleep, Ere the dawn has hidden her swelling breasts, Ere the morning has covered her massive flanks, With the flame-coloured mantle of noon. Lie down in the dewless grass nor awake To see whether afternoon has hurried in From the rim of her purple robe dropping dim flowers Golden flowers with pollen-dusty cups, Flowers of silence. Heed not though eve Should sail, a grey swan, in the pool of the sky, Spreading low ripples. Heed these not! Only awake when slim twilight Plunges her body in the last blown spray of the sun! Awake, then, for twilight and dawn are your day: Therefore lie down in the long dim grass and sleep, And I will blow my low pipes over you. XIII As I went through the city by day I saw shadows in sunlight: But in the night I saw everywhere Stars within the darkness. (A coldly fluting breeze: Dark Pan under the trees. Low laughter: up the sky A star like a street-lamp left on high.) As I went through the city by day I was hustled by jostling people. But in the night, the wind of the darkness Whispered, "Hush!" to my soul. XIV Brown bed of earth, still fresh and warm with love, Now hold me tight: Broad field of sky, where the clouds laughing move, Fill up my pores with light: You trees, now talk to me, chatter and scold or weep, Or drowsing stand: You winds, now play with me, you wild things creep, You boulders, bruise my hand! I now am yours and you are mine: it matters not What Gods herein I see: You grow in me, I am rooted to this spot, We drink and pass the cup, immortally. XV O seeded grass, you army of little men Crawling up the long slope with quivering, quick blades of steel: You who storm millions of graves, tiny green tentacles of Earth, Interlace yourselves tightly over my heart, And do not let me go: For I would lie here forever and watch with one eye The pilgrimaging ants in your dull, savage jungles, The while with the other I see the stiff lines of the slope Break in mid-air, a wave surprisingly arrested, And above them, wavering, dancing, bodiless, colourless, unreal, The long thin lazy fingers of the heat. XVI An ant crawling up a grass-blade, And above it, the sky. I shall remember these when I die: An ant and a butterfly And the sky.