The rocs scream in the air. The ghouls my pathway clear. For I have drunk the soul Of the dazzling maid they fear. The long handclasp you gave Still shakes upon my hands. O, daughter of a Jinn I plot in Islam lands, Haunting purple streets, Hissing, snarling, bold, A robber never jailed, A beggar never cold. I shall be sultan yet In this old crimson clad. _Oh quivering lights, Arabian Nights! Bagdad, Bagdad!_ THE LAME BOY AND THE FAIRY _To be Chanted with a Suggestion of Chopin’s Berceuse_ _A Poem Game. See the Chinese Nightingale, pages 93 through 97_ A lame boy Met a fairy In a meadow Where the bells grow. And the fairy Kissed him gaily. And the fairy Gave him friendship, Gave him healing, Gave him wings. “All the fashions I will give you. You will fly, dear, All the long year. “Wings of springtime, Wings of summer, Wings of autumn, Wings of winter! “Here is A dress for springtime.” And she gave him A dress of grasses, Orchard blossoms, Wildflowers found in Mountain passes, _Shoes of song and Wings of rhyme_. “Here is A dress for summer.” And she gave him A hat of sunflowers, A suit of poppies, Clover, daisies, All from wheat-sheaves In harvest time; _Shoes of song and Wings of rhyme_. “Here is A dress for autumn.” And she gave him A suit of red haw, Hickory, apple, Elder, paw paw, Maple, hazel, Elm and grape leaves. And blue And white Cloaks of smoke, And veils of sunlight, From the Indian summer prime! _Shoes of song and Wings of rhyme._ “Here is A dress for winter.” And she gave him A polar bear suit, And he heard the Christmas horns toot, And she gave him Green festoons and Red balloons and All the sweet cakes And the snow flakes Of Christmas time, _Shoes of song and Wings of rhyme_. And the fairy Kept him laughing, Led him dancing, Kept him climbing On the hill tops Toward the moon. “We shall see silver ships. We shall see singing ships, Valleys of spray today, Mountains of foam. We have been long away, Far from our wonderland. Here come the ships of love Taking us home. “Who are our captains bold? They are the saints of old. One is Saint Christopher. He takes your hand. He leads the cloudy fleet. He gives us bread and meat. His is our ship till We reach our dear land. “Where is our house to be? Far in the ether sea. There where the North Star Is moored in the deep. Sleepy old comets nod There on the silver sod. Sleepy young fairy flowers Laugh in their sleep. “A hundred years And A day, There we will fly And play I spy and cross tag. And meet on the high way, And call to the game Little Red Riding Hood, Goldilocks, Santa Claus, Every beloved And heart-shaking name.” And the lame child And the fairy Journeyed far, far To the North Star.