I have rested with the voices in the gardens of Ahthor, I have lain beneath the peach-trees in the hour of the purple: Because I had awaited in the garden of the peach-trees, Because I had feared not in the forest of my mind, Mine eyes beheld the vision of the blossom There in the peach-gardens past Asedon. O winds of Yrma, let her again come unto me, Whose hair ye held unbound in the gardens of Ahthor! VII Because of the beautiful white shoulders and the rounded breasts I can in no wise forget my beloved of the peach-trees, And the little winds that speak when the dawn is unfurled And the rose-colour in the grey oak-leaf’s fold When it first comes, and the glamour that rests On the little streams in the evening; all of these Call me to her, and all the loveliness in the world Binds me to my beloved with strong chains of gold. VIII If the rose-petals which have fallen upon my eyes And if the perfect faces which I see at times When my eyes are closed— Faces fragile, pale, yet flushed a little, like petals of roses: If these things have confused my memories of her So that I could not draw her face Even if I had skill and the colours, Yet because her face is so like these things They but draw me nearer unto her in my thought And thoughts of her come upon my mind gently, As dew upon the petals of roses. IX _He speaks to the rain._ O pearls that hang on your little silver chains, The innumerable voices that are whispering Among you as you are drawn aside by the wind, Have brought to my mind the soft and eager speech Of one who hath great loveliness, Which is subtle as the beauty of the rains That hang low in the moonshine and bring The May softly among us, and unbind The streams and the crimson and white flowers and reach Deep down into the secret places. X The glamour of the soul hath come upon me, And as the twilight comes upon the roses, Walking silently among them, So have the thoughts of my heart Gone out slowly in the twilight Toward my beloved, Toward the crimson rose, the fairest. PLANH _It is of the white thoughts that he saw in the Forest._ White Poppy, heavy with dreams, O White Poppy, who art wiser than love, Though I am hungry for their lips When I see them a-hiding And a-passing out and in through the shadows —There in the pine wood it is, And they are white, White Poppy, They are white like the clouds in the forest of the sky Ere the stars arise to their hunting. O White Poppy, who art wiser than love, I am come for peace, yea from the hunting Am I come to thee for peace. Out of a new sorrow it is, That my hunting hath brought me.