To Pierre Louys

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. . . .

PARSIFAL IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH OF PAUL VERLAINE

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.