Lyrics of an Italian

High in the forest of the sky The stars and branches interlace; As cloth-of-gold the fallen leaves lie Where twilight-peacocks lord the place, Spendthrifts of pride and grace. The grapes on vines are rubies red, They burn as flame, when day is done. The Dusk, brown Princess, turns her head While sunset-panthers past her run To caverns of the Sun. She throws cord-reins of sunbeams wrought, About the sunset-panthers, fleet, And rides them joyously, when caught, Across the poppied fields of wheat— Their hearts with terror beat. They reach the caverns of the Sun, The raven-clouds above them fly; Dame Night her tapestry’s begun. High, o’er the forest of the sky The moon, a boat, sails by.

My son is dead and I am going blind, And in the Ishmael-wind of grief I tremble like a leaf; I have no mind for any word you say: My son is dead and I am going blind.

I loved her more than moon or sun— There is no moon or sun for me; Of lovely things to look upon, The loveliest was she. She does not hear me, though I sing— And, oh, my heart is like to break! The world awakens with the Spring, But she—she does not wake!

The woman who is scarlet now Was soul of whiteness yesterday; A void is she wherein a man May leave his lust to-day. ’Twas with the kiss Ischariot A traitor bore her heart away; Her body now is leased by men That kneel at church to pray.

I who am Giver of Life Out of the cradle of dawn Bring you this infant of song.— He has a golden tongue And wings upon his feet. The apple of silver he holds Once lay at the breast of the moon; I give him an apple of gold ’Twas forged in the fires of the sun; This apple of copper I give That Sunset concealed in her hair. When from the husk of dusk I shake the stars, Down slumber’s vine I’ll send him dreams in dew, And peace will overtake him like a song Like thoughts of love invade a lover’s mind. The spear-scars of the red world he will wear As women in their hair may wear a rose. On the rosary of his days He will say a prayer for your sake, The hounds-o’-wonder will lie at his side, And lick the dust-o’-the-world from his feet. The apple of silver will work him a charm When under his pillow he lays it at night; The apple of copper will warm his heart When a heart he loves grows cold on his own; The apple of gold will teach him a song For children to sing when he blows on a reed; The dew will hear and run to the sun, The sun will whisper it in my ear, And you, being dead, the song will hear.