Classic Poem

In the yellow mists of morning,
In the furthest east, below,
Peaks of pale, fantastic mountains
Flanked with rice-fields, capped with snow;

In the quaint-rilled meads of sunrise,
In the twinkling orange wood,
Moon-faced, pensive, blandly smiling,
Calm the first of Mongols stood.

Clattering with his wooden sandal,
Wielding aesthetic rake,
Tracing sunset-tinting vases
Made to look at—and to break.

Making comic gods to worship,
painting them profanely blue;
Lying on his back and smiling,
Having nothing else to do.

“Are not all things mine to play with,
Sun, chrysanthemum and sea;
Am I not the latest, sharpest,
First of all things that shall be?”

Loud he chirped, but in his pathway
Slow there rose a glittering thing,
Dragon-fanged and fiery-crested,
Wreathed fantastic for a spring;

Swept the grey storks from the rushes,
Sprawled the spiders from the brake,
Blazing, coiling, limbless, endless,
Thus it raised its voice and spake:

“Are not all things thine to govern,
Art not thou the lord of dust,
Stronger than the laws that made thee,
Subtler than the powers that trust?

“Grasp the reins of power and passion,
Be as gods are where you stand,
Master pleasure, vengeance, knowledge,
Lo, the fruit is to your hand.”

Dazed, bewitched and fascinated
Stood the Mongol, rose at last,
Saw the orange gleam above him,
Sprang aloft and held it fast.

Dragon-clouds came o'er the sun-disc,
Rose the sea in spires of spray,
Fruit trees danced and wild flowers scampered,
All the Eden raved away.

Snapt convolvulus and lily,
Vanished heights and surf and grain,
And the fallen stood together
On a never-ending plain.