Classic Poem

Ah! Elspeth, that slow curve of the moon
Through the dense leaves—
How like the rounding of perfect fruit it is!
Of perfect fruit in ancient gardens
Where green and bronze and violet unfold
In the stately procession of peacocks.

In such a garden . . .

It seems to me that we have had no past,
No past with its old sorrows and dead joys;
And now there is to be no more gladness . .
But it may be I am foolish,
And . . .

Lean your head.
So the moonlight shifts to your shoulder,
And your hair is a pale and perilous wonder.
Ah! your lips now.

In such a garden . . .

There should be peacocks on the open grass
And a great basin to blur
Its shadows of dark green and pallors of silver.