The Equinox (Volume I, Number VII)

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. 213