“So that’s why I write this letter: that you shouldn’t think it right Just because we used to promise things and kiss, in days gone by, To refuse the other fellows when they come to woo, at sight. O! London eats your heart and soul—my little Rose, Good-bye.” _Lodgings_ (_Bloomsbury_) As I climb these musty stairs, To my garret near the roof— Past the ladies singing airs From the latest Opéra-bouffe— I can see her little feet Twinkling in the brilliant light, I can hear the words so sweet That she said for my delight, When the whirling dance was over And she joined me in the night. As I climb these hard-worn stairs To my garret near the roof, All her pretty, subtle airs, As she kept me half-aloof, Fill my thoughts and banish cares; I can hear her soft reproof When I kissed her unawares, As I climb these weary stairs To my garret near the roof. “_L’Ile de Java_” (_To Madame Josse_) Madame, from out the hurrying throng Two boys have come to drink and talk; And one will make a little song And one a drawing, done in chalk. When all goes wayward with our art And beauty dances out of sight, It’s good to still a hungry heart With chatter far into the night. Here through the grey-blue smoke that twines, Gay visions come to tired eyes; How bright the Isle of Java shines Beneath what deep, cerulean skies! Transported to that dazzling clime Where sunlight scalds a silver beach— We can forget the flight of time, And falterings of line and speech. We can forget our isle of dream Is no more real than thoughts that fly— And follow close the magic gleam Which charms and haunts us till we die. And so from out the hurrying throng We two have come to drink and talk; And I have made a little song, And he a drawing, done in chalk! 1908. _The Poplars_ I Oh fluttering hand, so white and warm and shy, Oh eyes that have imprisoned a stray beam Stol’n from the moon! Oh tremulous heart’s cry, From lips new parted in some childish dream! See, Dear, the poplars tremble. They are very tall, They stand like pillars against the darkling sky, And over the little lake their shadows fall.... See, through the gloom, the great white swans glide by. If you can love this little, why not all? Ah! brooding mouth that never will tell me why.... II Oh, it is still, out here, under the starry glow: Your lips to mine you give, and my hand is in yours, And your body is mine if I wish it ... and yet, I know That the treasure I seek you deny, And the heart of you, soul of you, keep. III I would know why you lift your head of a sudden, like this, And turn it (so finely poised) till the light picks out The shape of your moulded neck, of your hair so sweet to kiss, And the line of your forehead and nose and lips that pout.