I waited, and the counted day Fruitlessly came and went; I made excuse for the delay, Pitiable confident. I knew to-morrow's light must bring The words you must have sent. And still I stand on that dim verge And look across the sea; The waves have changed into a dirge Their volubility. And in my disillusioned heart Is a little grave for me. But still with shaded eyes I gaze As mournfully I sing, And one by one the trailing days, As they no message bring, Fall with their slow monotony As beads fall from a string. THE BANQUET WINE ran; rich yellow wine upon the marble floor Recklessly spilled; the Nubians ran to pour A fresh libation; and to scatter showers Of red rose petals; candles overturned Smouldered among the ruins of the flowers, And overhead swung heavy shadowy bowers Of blue and purple grapes, And strange fantastic shapes Of varied birds, where lanterns hung and dimly burned. The melon and the orange, turned to use As golden balls with laughter lightly tossed, Lay burst and drained of their sweet juice, Uselessly ripened and for ever lost; All glowing as they lay upon the ground, As envious of their fellows, Who, piled in luscious reds and yellows, Enriched the tables all around, The tables low, Sheltering the reclining grace; Here, through the curling smoke, a swarthy face, And jewelled turban bound about the head, And here the glow Of red carnation pressed to lips as warmly red. And as they lay in their luxurious ease, Playing with grapes and rose-leaves, slim And willowy slave-girls, in the hope to please, Twisted and danced before them, to the dim Uncertain music in the shadows played; Some came with supple limb, With Mystery's aid And snake-like creep, Others with riotous leap And made festivity to Bacchus wed; Others with stiff Egyptian tread, And straight black hair hanging in glossy braid, They danced, unnoted, and exhausted fled. * * * * * Still floated from beneath the acacia-tree The droning Eastern music's minor key. MCMXIII SO prodigal was I of youth, Forgetting I was young; I worshipped dead men for their strength, Forgetting I was strong. I cherished old, jejune advice; I thought I groped for truth; Those dead old languages I learned When I was prodigal of youth! Then in the sunlight stood a boy, Outstretching either hand, Palm upwards, cup-like, and between The fingers trickled sand. "Oh, why so grave" he cried to me, "Laugh, stern lips, laugh at last! Let wisdom come when wisdom may. The sand is running fast." I followed him into the sun, And laughed as he desired, And every day upon the grass We play till we are tired. A CREED THAT I should live and look with open eyes I count as half my claim to Paradise. I have not crept beneath cathedral arches, But bathed in streams beneath the silver larches;