Douglas Goldring

TO come so soon to this imagined dark—

More velvet-deep than any midnight park!

Palaces hem me in, with blind black walls;

The water is hushed for a voice that never calls.

My gondolier sways silently over his oar.

At St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear,

Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land,

From Provence to Paris—never fear—

All the heart can feel will understand.

A small town, a white town,

A town for you and me—

With a Café Glacier in the square,

And schooners at the quay;

And the terrasse of a small hotel

That looks upon the sea!

There gay sounds and sweet sounds

And sounds of peace come through:

The cook sings in the kitchen,

The pink-foot ring-doves coo,

And Julien brings the Pernods

That are bad for me and you.

At St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear,

Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land,

From Provence to Paris—never fear—

All the heart can feel will understand.

III

Waves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea;

A pale light on the horizon lingers and shines,

That might shine round the graal: and we

Stand very silent, underneath the pines.

O swift expresses for the spirit’s flight!

Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know,

Looking roguishly back, and flying forward—so

I follow, flashing after. Blessed night!

Do you remember, have you been these ways,

Dreaming or waking, after sunny days;

Sailed, in a moment, to imagined lands—

With one to love you, holding both your hands—

To old hot countries where the warm grape clings,

And an old, musical language strikes the ear

Like a caress, most exquisite to hear—

Your soul the voyager and your heart her wings?