The morning is clean and blue and the wind blows up the clouds: Now my thoughts gathered from afar Once again in their patched armour, with rusty plumes and blunted swords, Move out to war. Smoking our morning pipes we shall ride two and two Through the woods. For our old cause keeps us together, And our hatred is so precious not death or defeat can break it. God willing, we shall this day meet that old enemy Who has given us so many a good beating. Thank God we have a cause worth fighting for, And a cause worth losing and a good song to sing. XXIII Torridly the moon rolls upward Against the smooth immensity of midsummer sky, Changeless, inexhaustible: The city beneath is still: Heaven and Earth are clasped together, Momently life grows as careless As the life of the intense stars. Out of the houses climbing, Fuming up windows, flickering from every roof-top, Rigid on sonorous pinnacles, Silently swirl aloft Love's infinite flamelets. XXIV O all you stars up yonder, Do you hear me? Beautiful, winking, sullen eyes, I am tired of seeing you in the same old places, Night after night in the sky. I hoped you would dance--but after twenty-six years, I find you are determined to stay as you are. So I make it known to you, stars clustered or solitary, That I want you to fall into my lap to-night. Come down, little stars, let me play with you: I will string you like beads, and shovel you together, And wear you in my ears, and scatter you over people-- And toss you back, like apples, if I choose. XXV As I wandered over the city through the night, I saw many strange things: But I have forgotten all Except one painted face. Gaudy, shameless night-orchid, Heavy, flushed, sticky with narcotic perfume, There was something in you which made me prefer you Above all the feeble forget-me-nots of the world. You were neither burnt out nor pallid, There was plain, coarse, vulgar meaning in every line of you And no make-believe: You were at least alive, When all the rest were but puppets of the night. XXVI Slowly along the lamp-emblazoned street, Amid the last sad drifting crowds of midnight Like lost souls wandering, Comes marching by solemnly As for some gem-bedecked ritual of old, A monotonous procession of black carts Full crowded with blood-red blossom: Scarlet geraniums Unfolding their fiery globes upon the night. These are the memories of day moulded in jagged flame: Lust, joy, blood, and death. With crushed hands, weary eyes, and hoarse clamour, We consecrate and acclaim them tumultuously Ere they pass, contemptuous, beyond the unpierced veil of silence. XXVII