W. R. CHILDE

This is the singing of the sons of Hâli, As they stand at their booth-doors when brazen eve Covers the city of Chrysopolis Like the vast cup of an inverted flower, And into the pale blue cope of marble twilight Steal up men's souls like incense strange and pure. "This is the singing of the sons of Hâli, To you, O seraphs, where you lean your breasts Upon the perfumed clouds of sunsetting, And your huge wings, enormous, like a swan's, Alone cover with silver plumes of fire Your long sides, strange as pictures in Toledo— "O seraphs, with your melting eyes like girls', And rosy breasts embosomed in the eve, Vouchsafe to us a little rain of coins, Of golden sequins tumbling through our sleep; Give us of heavenly gold, we have none earthly, And stab our souls with seeds of sworded fire."— This is the singing of the sons of Hâli.