And almond trees in bloom, and oleanders, Or a wide purple sea Of plain-land gorgeous with a lovely poison-- The evil Darling pea:--
If I am tired I call on these to help me To dream--and dawn-lit skies, Lemon and pink, or faintest, coolest lilac, Float on my soothéd eyes.
There is no night so black but you shine through it, There is no morn so drear, O Colour of the World, but I can find you, Most tender, pure, and clear.
Thanks be to God who gave this gift of colour Which who shall seek shall find; Thanks be to God who gives me strength to hold it, Though I were stricken blind.
When I pass by below your window, singing, Never by any chance I think of you; And jealousy your hard heart may be wringing-- I go that way because I’ve work to do. And if you think, beneath the gay voice throbbing, You hear the sound of one in sorrow sobbing-- I sing thus since my mood is thus. Believe me, Madame, no hopeless love of you shall grieve me.
If they have said that I look pale and worn, Time is at fault, not any woman’s scorn. If they have said I daily seek Death’s doors, What’s that to you? Am I a love of yours?
_But if I see you smiling at Gigi that sweet way, Then I go to the galleys and you to churchyard clay._
Along the road to Ronda Grow rosemary and thyme, And trails of periwinkle Among the brambles climb; But ’tis the broom the paths along That lifts the traveller’s heart to song.
The broom its royal treasure Spills lavish, far and wide, No stone but has its banner Of cloth-of-gold beside, No weed but bears its nodding plume, Its careless bravery of bloom.
The purple spears of lavender Smell sweet as charity, And amaryllis blossoms By grey-flowered rosemary; It’s worth a year of suffering To walk the Ronda road in spring.
There grows a gallant army Of blossoms great and small Along the road to Ronda-- The broom is lord of all. O fair and fair and wonder-fair, Spilt like the sunshine everywhere!
The moon is riding high, the stars are shining But very palely, through the clear blue light; The plain is empty, and the circling mountains Rise cold and far through swathes of mist to-night.
There is no wind astir, the serried rushes Stand straight as lances round the glassed lagoon; Within still waters grows a single lily, A great white flower of solitude, the moon.