Chapter II

I feel again the lengths of silken gossamer enfold My body and my limbs in robes of emerald and gold. I feel the heavy sunshine, and the weight of languid heat That crowned the day you laid the royal jewels at my feet.

You wound my throat with jacinths, green and glist'ning serpent-wise, My hot, dark throat that pulsed beneath the ardour of your eyes; And centuries have failed to cool the memory of your hands That bound about my arms those massive, pliant golden bands.

You wreathed around my wrists long ropes of coral and of jade, And beaten gold that clung like coils of kisses love-inlaid; About my naked ankles tawny topaz chains you wound, With clasps of carven onyx, ruby-rimmed and golden bound.

But not for me the Royal Pearls to bind about my hair, "Pearls were too passionless," you said, for one like me to wear, I must have all the splendour, all the jewels warm as wine, But pearls so pale and cold were meant for other flesh than mine.

But all the blood-warm beauty of the gems you thought my due Were pallid as a pearl beside the love I gave to you; O! Love of mine come back across the years that lie between, When you were King of Egypt--Dear, and I was Egypt's Queen.

WHEN GEORGE WAS KING

Cards, and swords, and a lady's love, That is a tale worth reading, An insult veiled, a downcast glove, And rapiers leap unheeding. And 'tis O! for the brawl, The thrust, the fall, And the foe at your feet a-bleeding.

Tales of revel at wayside inns, The goblets gaily filling, Braggarts boasting a thousand sins, Though none can boast a shilling. And 'tis O! for the wine, The frothing stein, And the clamour of cups a-spilling.

Tales of maidens in rich brocade, Powder and puff and patches, Gallants lilting a serenade Of old-time trolls and catches. And 'tis O! for the lips And the finger tips, And the kiss that the boldest snatches.

Tales of buckle and big rosette, The slender shoe adorning, Of curtseying through the minuet With laughter, love, or scorning. And 'tis O! for the shout Of the roustabout, As he hies him home in the morning.

Cards and swords, and a lady's love, Give to the tale God-speeding, War and wassail, and perfumed glove, And all that's rare in reading. And 'tis O! for the ways Of the olden days, And a life that was worth the leading.

DAY DAWN

All yesterday the thought of you was resting in my soul, And when sleep wandered o'er the world that very thought she stole To fill my dreams with splendour such as stars could not eclipse, And in the morn I wakened with your name upon my lips.

Awakened, my beloved, to the morning of your eyes, Your splendid eyes, so full of clouds, wherein a shadow tries To overcome the flame that melts into the world of grey, As coming suns dissolve the dark that veils the edge of day.

Cool drifts the air at dawn of day, cool lies the sleeping dew, But all my heart is burning, for it woke from dreams of you; And O! these longing eyes of mine look out and only see A dying night, a waking day, and calm on all but me.

So gently creeps the morning through the heavy air, The dawn grey-garbed and velvet-shod is wandering everywhere To wake the slumber-laden hours that leave their dreamless rest, With outspread, laggard wings to court the pillows of the west.

Up from the earth a moisture steals with odours fresh and soft, A smell of moss and grasses warm with dew, and far aloft The stars are growing colourless, while drooping in the west, A late, wan moon is paling in a sky of amethyst.

The passing of the shadows, as they waft their pinions near, Has stirred a tender wind within the night-hushed atmosphere, That in its homeless wanderings sobs in an undertone An echo to my heart that sobbing calls for you alone.

The night is gone, beloved, and another day set free, Another day of hunger for the one I may not see. What care I for the perfect dawn? the blue and empty skies? The night is always mine without the morning of your eyes.

THE ARCHERS