OLD JEWELRY
A narrow band of velvet worn and frayed,
Its two ends prisoned by a buckle set
With yellowed seed-pearls, tiny cones of jet;
A cluster of pink coral surely made
To grace a dainty ear, though I'm afraid
The dangling pendant's lost. More precious yet
This massive golden brooch, its careful fret
With mellow-tinted cairngorms all inlaid.
What of the supple wrist the ribbon bound,
Perhaps a lover's gift? The rosy ear
That heard his plea? What of the "breste of snowe"
That throbbed beneath the brooch's shining round
The day she walked out bride? Alas, I fear
Dust of the churchyard long and long ago.
Its two ends prisoned by a buckle set
With yellowed seed-pearls, tiny cones of jet;
A cluster of pink coral surely made
To grace a dainty ear, though I'm afraid
The dangling pendant's lost. More precious yet
This massive golden brooch, its careful fret
With mellow-tinted cairngorms all inlaid.
What of the supple wrist the ribbon bound,
Perhaps a lover's gift? The rosy ear
That heard his plea? What of the "breste of snowe"
That throbbed beneath the brooch's shining round
The day she walked out bride? Alas, I fear
Dust of the churchyard long and long ago.
AVIGNON
Sleepy Avignon—it was near the hour
Of nones we crossed the long white bridge that lay
A lily-garland over the green-grey,
Wide-circling river; saw Sire Philip's tower
A lily-stalk denuded of its flower,
Against the dove-hued sky it seemed to sway
And quiver in the pale heat of that day
When all the spirits of the south had power.
We found the convent. By its garden wall
Ripe pears lay on the grass, while clear and bold
From the pear-tree we heard a mavis sing.
A Sister showed us—that was best of all—
King Rene's altar-painting, black and gold
As the queen-tulips of their southern spring.
Of nones we crossed the long white bridge that lay
A lily-garland over the green-grey,
Wide-circling river; saw Sire Philip's tower
A lily-stalk denuded of its flower,
Against the dove-hued sky it seemed to sway
And quiver in the pale heat of that day
When all the spirits of the south had power.
We found the convent. By its garden wall
Ripe pears lay on the grass, while clear and bold
From the pear-tree we heard a mavis sing.
A Sister showed us—that was best of all—
King Rene's altar-painting, black and gold
As the queen-tulips of their southern spring.
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