Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;
There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,
Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.
But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled,
We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column’s head.
And over the stairway, at the foot—oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread
Violets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, tinkling country things
Speaking so wistfully of other Springs,
From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred.
Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady !
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and styrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white ass, come over the sea
To me, to me,
Surely the flowers of a hundred springs
Are simply the souls of beautiful things!
The poppies aflame with gold and red
Were the kisses of lovers in days that are fled.
The purple pansies with dew-drops pearled
Were the rainbow dreams of a youngling world.
The lily, white as a star apart,
First, London, for its myriads; for its height,
Manhattan heaped in towering stalagmite;
But Paris for the smoothness of the paths
That lead the heart unto the heart's delight. . . .
Fair loiterer on the threshold of those days
When there's no lovelier prize the world displays
Than, having beauty and your twenty years,
You have the means to conquer and the ways,
And coming where the crossroads separate
And down each vista glories and wonders wait,
Spirit of Dreams! When many a toilsome height
Shut paradise from exiled Adam’s sight,
Two wedded powers were given thenceforth to stray
On either hand, companions of his way;
This Hope was named in heaven, whence he came,
And that of Melancholy bore the name;
Thy parents these—who clothed thee with a ray
Snatched from Perfection as she passed away,
And to their gentle child bequeathed the grace
Wherewith they once adorned unfallen nature’s face.
and dawn wake up call,
whistle and call for gold sun-
songs of the thrill days.
waft in fading mist
I dreamed of purple
all through last night's sable hours
in a sunset world
lilacs danced the dusk
underneath plum colored skies
in the sun's shadow
purple martin songs
from beauty birds on a wing
At magic mountain
of the purple twilight dusk,
Summery stars swirl!
A dusty purple evening,
of redbird songs echoing.
Pearls spill down the mountainside,
No breeze is stirring.
Golden memories now fade
I was an enthusiastic painter, striving to apply more verve and color,
Like sunshine dreams, of blue-gray days, that couldn't be any duller.
Painting had for long been my passion, but had turned into a career,
Like the splashy sunset evenings, when blue stars magically appear.
I had sold many of my artworks, and had also held some exhibitions,
People admired my use of colors, its liberal use, with few inhibitions.
My mother was a prominent artist, and I'd followed in her footsteps,
Deep purple passion, green garden glory, with a scent remarkably rich,
Like the haunting, full October moon, that hardly ever fails to bewitch!
Lilac lovely, violet and voluptuous, in gilt daytime, and evening's ease,
When soon cosmic skies are colored, like rubies, cardinals and cherries.
Admired like amethysts, or glistening grapes, or plump, plentiful plums,
Or like beauty marching down every lane, to a beating of festal drums!
Lilac like lavender, spreading redolent secrets, over scenic, sunlit miles,
Until sangria nights of fuchsia fervor, and fiery, shooting star projectiles.