lighted pane: One stirs uneasily: one is cold in death.
And the late moon, fearfully peering over an immense shoulder, Sees, in the shadow below, the unpeopled hush of a street.
The trees, like great jade elephants, Chained, stamp and shake 'neath the gadflies of the breeze The trees lunge and plunge, unruly elephants: The clouds are their crimson howdah-canopies, The sunlight glints like the golden robe of a Shah. Would I were tossed on the wrinkled backs of those trees
The clouds are like a sombre sea: On shining screens of ebony Are carven marvels of my heart.
'Gainst crimson placques of cinnabar Shrills, like a diamond, dawn's last star.
The gardens of my heart are green: The rain drips off the glistening leaves. In the humid gardens of my soul, The crimson peonies explode.
I am like a drop of rose-flushed rain, Clinging to crimson petals of love.
In the afternoon, over gold screens, I will brush the blue dust of my dreams.
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