POETRY . .
BLUE- TILES.
AMONG the hardware merchant's window slum
With brackets made of brass, knockers ornate, Bronze-name plates and a handle for a gate, "Acacia Villa," and, of course, " Mascotte," And glossy lustre edgings for a plot Of villa grass (a quick relief !) it smiles The happy blue of unexpected tiles !
Some swarthy Persian first conceived this blue.
A turbaned gentleman in a bazaar, Much travelled, who had carried from afar Strange legends of the City of the Moon In liquid Urdu, droning thro' the noon, When others slept, in fancy wandering on Tliro' the old brilliancies of Babylon.
He told of palaces Euphrates lipped, Of how they cured the sick with saffron roots.
From shady gardens of amazing fruits, Bronzed gates set westward, that in sunset shone, And sycamore, and woods of Lebanon, Forming vast ceilings, and how, fold on fold, Rippled the panels of pure beaten gold.
And on high pedestals to guard this state, Four lusty silver bulls to mark the gate.
And tales he had to tell of zikkurats, Of walls gem-studded, and of woven mats.
Yet of these memories, the one most dear Was of a summer's evening, tranquil, clear, When behind two harsh towers the heavens looked thro' In one soft sweep of unforgotten blue.
He swore by his long beard that Allah sent This message to him : he should be content With the brown earth He gave, the prophet's green Of waving grass : the blue of heaven seen Thro' the tall towers men builded, for it must Be just as blue when men and towers were dust.
So he returned to his own land, and strove By the oil-lamp and into moth-filled dusk Behind the fretted screen, while the inviting musk From floating garments of white dancing girls Whispered to him in vain. Where incense curls In the dim mosque, his thoughts from Allah strayed To mixing dyes that fadeless colour made And from his toil the countless ages thro', Comes to a hardware shop the Persian blue.
And yet I see, where some smug grate beguiles, A malice in the hand that wrought these tiles !
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