Her flute's clear solo greets the maiden day-- Above the waking of melodious May, Its notes are like a trellised flight of flowers. The chirping birds whose orchestra of bills Accompanies rain--the tea-rose best distills-- And then the smell of earth between the showers! From garden bright, in drops of crystal gown'd, I hear the breezes make a leafy sound Through vibrant buzz of flies that seek the shade-- ... And wonder whether--as sweet noon reposes-- The roses make the air, the air the roses Within the house kept cooler than a glade. Against the wall, upon the sunny side, Their fruitful branches fixed and crucified, The pear-trees stretch out arms in martyred line-- While we that surfeit, nap, as calyx'd bees, Who murmurs, still pursuing imageries ... «Like Jewish candelabras». (relight mine!) Rising as to welcome a newcomer The flute pipes to the first eve of the summer --Nocturnal nature moves to minor bars-- A golden crescent in a druid's tree Reminds her that the forest has a key-- And out she goes to serenade the stars! A PARISIAN ROOF GARDEN IN 1918 As I must mount to feed those doves of ours, Perhaps you too will spend nocturnal hours Upon your roof So high aloof That from its terraced bowers We catch at clouds and draw a bath from showers. Before the moon has made all pale the night, Let's meet with flute and viol, and supper light: A yew lamb, minted sauce, a raisined bun, A melon riper than the melting sun-- A flask of Xeres, that we've scarce begun-- Well try the «lunar waltz» while floats afar Upon the liquid night--night's nenuphar. Or else, with senses tuned alike perchance, Reclining love will make the heavens dance; And if the enemy from aerial cars Drops death, we'll share it vibrant with the stars! HOW WRITE THE BEAT OF LOVE How write the beat of love, the very throb, The rhythm of our veins' deep eloquence? How fix that darkness-rending final sob, That perfect swoon of each united sense. The full-sailed rising of your body's sweep --Adrift and safe on joy's last tidal wave-- Will toss you on the silver sands of sleep, Forgetful of the ecstacy you gave. Your breath ebbs restful as the falling tide: A sea becalmed!... Lay me in valleyed part Of breasts whose undulating crests subside-- Ah how they marked the high beats of your heart! A LA CAMPAGNE The night, whose silences detach each sound, The leaves, as whispering heralds in a wood, Stir hopes of you about my solitude. Was that a carriage wheel upon the ground? --The grassy ground that brings the road uphill Would muffle horses hoofs--I listen still-- A nervous motion at my heart: the bound Of too responsive veins--a hush profound.