IN the fields like an Indian mazery That the foolish moon has flowered, Rose Bertin is walking lazily where The fringe of the field is bowered With trees as dark as the ancient creeds Of China and of Ind . . . Rose Bertin walks through the fields' pearled weeds Where haunts the satyr wind. "Where are you going to, my pretty maid," That negroid satyr sighs . . . "To feed my pretty chucks, sir," she said -- "Each feathered thing that flies. To feed them with the sun's gold grains In the fields' sparse Indian chintz; But now those grains are spilt like rains, And still light feathery glints Fly in my brain." . . . Those bright birds flock, The butterbump, the urban Ranee stork, the turkey-cock (Red paladin in a turban), The crane who talks through his long nose, The plump and foolish quail -- In their feathered robes they follow Rose, And never once they fail. And Harriet, Susan, Rose and Polly, Silken and frilled as a pigeon Sleek them and praise the golden folly That made laughing Rose a religion. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE JOY OF THE HILLS by EDWIN MARKHAM WINTER EVENING by ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN EPIGRAM by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM LILIES: 9. BENEATH LOFTIER STARS by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) DEATH IN A BALL-ROOM by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |