ON—ON—“ POET ”
Hail
!
Poet prend ton lute—Je disparaitre,
No more together we’ll enter the
Enchanted garden of make—believe,
Nor my sad soul listen While thine deceive.
No more you'll be the God of Sacrifice,
Nor I the crucified
Ah, Garden of Allah—how bitter sweet
Thy fruit.
Why breakest thou the heart?
Why spoilest thou the soul with notes
From thy golden lute?
Lo
! our garden a common room,
Our Chinese god burnt clay, and
The singing of verses a funeral hymn
That awakes with awakening day.
’Twas all such a meaningless play,
Poet prend ton lure—Je disparaitre.
Hail
I
Poet, take my hand—we’ll walk
Still a little way.
I’ll not desert thee at the close of day,
I, too, must pray
A beggar asking alms of passers-by,
Does not refuse a drink to one who 's dry
That once by him did lie.
Poet, come closerbefore I leave for aye
Take thou my hand, we’ll walk still
A little way.
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