John Gray (1866-1934)

On a Picture

Not pale, as one in sleep or holier death,

Nor illcontent the lady seems, nor loth

To lie in shadow of shrill river growth,

So steadfast are the river's arms beneath.

Pale petals follow her in very faith,

Unmixed with pleasure or regret, and both

Her maidly hands look up, in noble sloth

To take the blossoms of her scattered wreath.

No weakest ripple lives to kiss her throat,

Nor dies in meshes of untangled hair;

No movement stirs the floor of river moss.

Until some furtive glimmer gleam across

Voluptuous mouth, where even teeth are bare,

And gild the broidery of her petticoat...

Geranium, houseleek, laid in oblong beds

On the trim grass. The daisies' leprous stain

Is fresh. Each night the daisies burst again,

Though every day the gardener crops their heads.

A wistful child, in foul unwholesome shreds,

Recalls some legend of a daisy chain

That makes a pretty necklace. She would fain

Make one, and wear it, if she had some threads.

Sun, leprous flowers, foul child. The asphalt burns.

The garrulous sparrows perch on metal Burns.

Sing! Sing! they say, and flutter with their wings.

He does not sing, he only wonders why

He is sitting there. The sparrows sing. And I

Yield to the strait allure of simple things.

Conquered the flower-maidens, and the wide embrace

Of their round proffered arms, that tempt the virgin boy;

Conquered the trickling of their babbling tongues; the coy

Back glances, and the mobile breasts of subtle grace;

Conquered the Woman Beautiful, the fatal charm

Of her hot breast, the music of her babbling tongue;

Conquered the gate of Hell, into the gate the young

Man passes, with the heavy trophy at his arm,

The holy Javelin that pierced the Heart of God.

He heals the dying king, he sits upon the throne,

King, and high priest of that great gift, the living Blood.

In robe of gold the youth adores the glorious Sign

Of the green goblet, worships the mysterious Wine.

And oh! the chime of children's voices in the dome.