| AaaAa |
From the Terrace
Go, little wreath of smoke, apace
Waft your illicit faint perfume
Across the interdicted space
Of yonder lamplit room
Tell her who lingers there and reads,
Yet in my absence hides a yawn,
That the soft voice of summer pleads
For her sweet presence on the lawn.
Say that above the deep-blue hills
hangs, fair to see, the sickle moon,
And that a mellow fragrance fills
The orchard mown this afternoon
Say that your soothing influence,
With hopeful sentiment combined,
Inspires to rare benevolence
A lover who hath newly dined.
And, if perchance, the garden seat,
where drowsy beetles wheel and hum,
Can tempt her not from her retreat,
And if she still refuse to come,
Then whisper, cigarette of mine,
Forebodings in her ear apart,
Of incense offered at a shrine
That still hath something of my heart. |