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A Feast of Lanterns, by L. Cranmer-Byng, [1916], at


The rain's in the air
And the winds arouse,
Shaking the cinnamon boughs,
And the begonias' gay parterre;
Raising dust and wreathing mist,
Whirling all things where they list—
Leaves in many-coloured showers,
Bright petals of innumerable flowers.
Knocking at all doors their hustling
Sets the silken curtains rustling,
Till, as shrunken draughts, they creep
Into the shrouded halls of sleep,
Raise the hair and ruck the skin
Of the startled folk therein.

I am grown weary of my lonely state,
Tired of the tongueless hours that wait,
Dreaming of her whom skies of blue
And twilight æons hid from view.

p. 86

Swiftly the waters take their flight
Grandly the mountains rise,
Yon birds that taper to the skies
Why have they lost their plumage bright?
Would they might bear my messages of love!
Alas! the trackless heav’ns unroll above;
From west to east the river flows,
But the waves return not to my calling;
Once more the rare magnolia blows,
But hour by hour her flowers are falling.
My jasper lyre is laid apart,
Hushed for a while the lute of jade;
I hear the beating of my heart,
And watch the moon lean down the glade.

Then, ere the shadows wane,
Out of the night's unrest
Ballad and old refrain
Lure me to seek again
The dream-built Isles of the Blest.

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