Irradiations; Sand and Spray — IRRADIATIONS (Parts I through XII)

I

The spattering of the rain upon pale terraces Of afternoon is like the passing of a dream Amid the roses shuddering 'gainst the wet green stalks Of the streaming trees--the passing of the wind Upon the pale lower terraces of my dream Is like the crinkling of the wet grey robes Of the hours that come to turn over the urn Of the day and spill its rainy dream.

Vague movement over the puddled terraces: Heavy gold pennons--a pomp of solemn gardens Half hidden under the liquid veil of spring: Far trumpets like a vague rout of faded roses Burst 'gainst the wet green silence of distant forests: A clash of cymbals--then the swift swaying footsteps Of the wind that undulates along the languid terraces.

Pools of rain--the vacant terraces Wet, chill and glistening Towards the sunset beyond the broken doors of to-day.

II

Gaunt sails--bronze boats of the evening-- Float along the river where aloft Like dim swans the clouds die Softly.

I am afraid to traverse the long still streets of evening;

For I fear to see the ghosts that stare at me From the shadows.

I will stay indoors instead and await my wandering dream.

She is about me, fluid yet, and formless;

The wind in her hair whispers like dim violins: And the faint glint of her eyes shifts like a sudden movement Over the surface of a dark pool.

She comes to me slowly down the lost streets of the evening, And their immutable silence is in her feet.

Let no lamps flare--be still, my heart--hands, stay: For I would touch the lips of my new love with my lips.

III

In the grey skirts of the fog seamews skirl desolately, And flick like bits of paper propelled by a wind About the flabby sails of a departing ship Crawling slowly down the low reaches Of the river.

About the keel there is a bubbling and gurgling Of grumpy water;

And as the prow noses out a way for itself, It seems to weave a dream of bubbles and flashing foam, A dream of strange islands whereto it is bound: Pear-islands drenched with the dawn.

The palms flash under the immense dark sky, Down which the sun dives to embrace the earth: Drums boom and conches bray, And with a crash of crimson cymbals Suddenly appears above the polished backs of slaves A king in a breastplate of gold Gigantic Amid tossed roses and swaying dancers That melt into pale undulations and muffled echoes 'Mid the bubbling of the muddy lumpy water, And the swirling of the seamews above the sullen river.

IV

The iridescent vibrations of midsummer light Dancing, dancing, suddenly flickering and quivering Like little feet or the movement of quick hands clapping, Or the rustle of furbelows or the clash of polished gems.

The palpitant mosaic of the midday light Colliding, sliding, leaping and lingering: O, I could lie on my back all day, And mark the mad ballet of the midsummer sky.

V

Over the roof-tops race the shadows of clouds;

Like horses the shadows of clouds charge down the street.

Whirlpools of purple and gold, Winds from the mountains of cinnabar, Lacquered mandarin moments, palanquins swaying and balancing Amid the vermilion pavilions, against the jade balustrades.

Glint of the glittering wings of dragon-flies in the light: Silver filaments, golden flakes settling downwards, Rippling, quivering flutters, repulse and surrender, The sun broidered upon the rain, The rain rustling with the sun.

Over the roof-tops race the shadows of clouds;

Like horses the shadows of clouds charge down the street.

VI

The balancing of gaudy broad pavilions Of summer against the insolent breeze: The bellying of the sides of striped tents, Swelling taut, shuddering in quick collapse, Silent under the silence of the sky.

Earth is streaked and spotted With great splashes and dapples of sunlight: The sun throws an immense circle of hot light upon the world, Rolling slowly in ponderous rhythm Darkly, musically forward.

All is silent under the steep cone of afternoon: The sky is imperturbably profound.

The ultimate divine union seems about to be accomplished, All is troubled at the attainment Of the inexhaustible infinite.

The rolling and the tossing of the sides of immense pavilions Under the whirling wind that screams up the cloudless sky.

VII

Flickering of incessant rain On flashing pavements: Sudden scurry of umbrellas: Bending, recurved blossoms of the storm.

The winds came clanging and clattering From long white highroads whipping in ribbons up summits: They strew upon the city gusty wafts of appleblossom, And the rustling of innumerable translucent leaves.

Uneven tinkling, the lazy rain Dripping from the eaves.

VIII

The fountain blows its breathless spray From me to you and back to me.

Whipped, tossed, curdled, Crashing, quivering: I hurl kisses like blows upon your lips.

The dance of a bee drunken with sunlight: Irradiant ecstasies, white and gold, Sigh and relapse.

The fountain tosses pallid spray Far in the sorrowful, silent sky.

IX

The houses of the city no longer hum and play: They lie like careless drowsy giants, dumb, estranged.

One presses to his breast his toy, a lighted pane: One stirs uneasily: one is cold in death.

And the late moon, fearfully peering over an immense shoulder, Sees, in the shadow below, the unpeopled hush of a street.

X

The trees, like great jade elephants, Chained, stamp and shake 'neath the gadflies of the breeze The trees lunge and plunge, unruly elephants: The clouds are their crimson howdah-canopies, The sunlight glints like the golden robe of a Shah.

Would I were tossed on the wrinkled backs of those trees XI

The clouds are like a sombre sea: On shining screens of ebony Are carven marvels of my heart.

'Gainst crimson placques of cinnabar Shrills, like a diamond, dawn's last star.

The gardens of my heart are green: The rain drips off the glistening leaves.

In the humid gardens of my soul, The crimson peonies explode.

I am like a drop of rose-flushed rain, Clinging to crimson petals of love.

In the afternoon, over gold screens, I will brush the blue dust of my dreams.

XII

The pine, rough-bearded Pan of the woods Whispered in my ear his sleepy-sweet song.

Like liquid fire it ran through my veins.

Thus he piped: Sad, lonely son of the woods, Lie down in the long still grass and sleep, Ere the dawn has hidden her swelling breasts, Ere the morning has covered her massive flanks, With the flame-coloured mantle of noon.

Lie down in the dewless grass nor awake To see whether afternoon has hurried in From the rim of her purple robe dropping dim flowers Golden flowers with pollen-dusty cups, Flowers of silence.

Heed not though eve Should sail, a grey swan, in the pool of the sky, Spreading low ripples.

Heed these not!

Only awake when slim twilight Plunges her body in the last blown spray of the sun!

Awake, then, for twilight and dawn are your day: Therefore lie down in the long dim grass and sleep, And I will blow my low pipes over you.

XIII