Voyages

I 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. II 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 fed 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! IV 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?