@3Listen, O my City! O my Beloved! On a flute that I have stolen from the Halls of Krishna, On the cymbals of ancient threnody, I shall sing you this—my song@1: My City is a daughter of the kings of ancient kingdoms. In the swift dawning of a startled day I have seen her; Jewelled with diadems of beaten metal and rude barbaric stones, Scented of rose and myrrh, Perfect in the softness and the slimness of her beauty. ... I have sat at her feet for eternities, And have listened to her singing—low-voiced—impassioned— (White breasts gleaming through a purple haze!) My City is a leprous hag, Cankerous and sore of body, Mumbling a wanton song At the dying of men and women, Leering and grinning in the murky miasmas of morning. ... I have sat in her shadows for ages, Weeping as she chanted her orisons of Fate— (Black breasts swaying through a dull-white mist!) @3O my City! O my Beloved! I have made for you— this—my song!@1 |