I CAN write no stately proem As a prelude to my lay; From a poet to a poem I would dare to say.
For if of these fallen petals One to you seem fair, Love will waft it till it settles On your hair.
And when wind and winter harden All the loveless land, It will whisper of the garden, You will understand.
WITH A COPY OF ‘A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES’
GO, little book, To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl, Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl: And bid him look Into thy pages: it may hap that he May find that golden maidens dance through thee.