Produced by Cindy Wolfe Boynton, www.cindywolfeboynton.com Poems of West and East By V. Sackville-West (The Hon. Mrs. Harold Nicolson) London: John Lane, The Bodley Head, Vigo St., W. New York: John Lane Company, MCMXVII Printed at The Complete Press, West Norwood To the unkindest of critics H.G.N. CONTENTS FOR *** SONG: LET US GO BACK SONG: MY SPIRIT LIKE A SHEPHERD BOY CONVALESCENCE TO KNOLE DISILLUSION THE BANQUET MCMXVIII A CREED TO A POET NOMADS THE GARDEN THE DANCING ELF CONSTANTINOPLE: DHJI-HAN-GHIR LEBLEBIDJI THE MUEZZIN THE GREEK HAN YANGHIN VAR MORNING IN CONSTANTINOPLE RETOUR EN SONGE CONSTANTINOPLE, MARCH MCMXV RESOLUTION POEMS FOR *** NO eyes shall see the poems that I write For you; not even yours; but after long Forgetful years have passed on our delight Some hand may chance upon a dusty song Of those fond days when every spoken word Was sweet, and all the fleeting things unspoken Yet sweeter, and the music half unheard Murmured through forests as a charm unbroken. It is the plain and ordinary page Of two who loved, sole-spirited and clear. Will you, O stranger of another age, Not grant a human and compassionate tear To us, who each the other held so dear? A single tear fraternal, sadly shed, Since that which was so living, is so dead. SONG: LET US GO BACK LET us go back together to the hills. Weary am I of palaces and courts, Weary of words disloyal to my thoughts,-- Come, my beloved, let us to the hills. Let us go back together to the land, And wander hand in hand upon the heights; Kings have we seen, and manifold delights,-- Oh, my beloved, let us to the land! Lone and unshackled, let us to the road Which holds enchantment round each hidden bend, Our course uncompassed and our whim its end, Our feet once more, beloved, to the road! SONG: MY SPIRIT LIKE A SHEPHERD BOY "Convalescente di squisiti mali" MY spirit like a shepherd boy Goes dancing down the lane. When all the world is young with joy Must I lie here in pain? With shepherd's pipe my spirit fled And cloven foot of Pan; The mortal bondage he has shed And shackling yoke of man. And though he leave me cold and mute, A traitor to his care, I smile to hear his honeyed flute Hang on the scented air. CONVALESCENCE