Marching on Tanga, marching the parch’d plain Of wavering spear-grass past Pangani River, England came to me--me who had always ta’en But never given before--England, the giver, In a vision of three poplar-trees that shiver On still evenings of summer, after rain, By Slapton Ley, where reed-beds start and quiver When scarce a ripple moves the upland grain. Then I thanked God that now I had suffered pain, And, as the parch’d plain, thirst, and lain awake Shivering all night through till cold daybreak: In that I count these sufferings my gain And her acknowledgment. Nay, more, would fain Suffer as many more for her sweet sake. FIVE DEGREES SOUTH I love all waves and lovely water in motion, That wavering iris in comb of the blown spray: Iris of tumbled nautilus in the wake’s commotion, Their spread sails dipped in a marmoreal way Unquarried, wherein are greeny bubbles blowing Plumes of faint spray, cool in the deep And lucent seas, that pause not in their flowing To lap the southern starlight while they sleep. These I have seen, these I have loved and known: I have seen Jupiter, that great star, swinging Like a ship’s lantern, silent and alone Within his sea of sky, and heard the singing Of the south trade, that siren of the air, Who shivers the taut shrouds, and singeth there. 104° FAHRENHEIT To-night I lay with fever in my veins Consumed, tormented creature of fire and ice, And, weaving the enhavock’d brain’s device, Dreamed that for evermore I must walk these plains Where sunlight slayeth life, and where no rains Abated the fierce air, nor slaked its fire: So that death seemed the end of all desire, To ease the distracted body of its pains. And so I died, and from my eyes the glare Faded, nor had I further need of breath; But when I reached my hand to find you there Beside me, I found nothing.... Lonely was death. And with a cry I wakened, but to hear Thin wings of fever singing in my ear. FEVER-TREES The beautiful Acacia She sighs in desert lands: Over the burning waterways Of Africa she sways and sways, Even where no air glideth In cooling green she stands. The beautiful Acacia She hath a yellow dress: A slender trunk of lemon sheen Gleameth through the tender green (Where the thorn hideth) Shielding her loveliness. The beautiful Acacia Dwelleth in deadly lands: Over the brooding waterways Where death breedeth, she sways and sways, And no man long abideth In valleys where she stands. THE RAIN-BIRD High on the tufted baobab-tree To-night a rain-bird sang to me A simple song, of three notes only, That made the wilderness more lonely;