By Cyril Creque
Round the tower where legends have had their decay–
Above me a mild blue, below me the bay,
Birth wavelets reflecting the deep of the sky
Where white veils of the angels flit brokenly by,
Gentle blown by the song shaking breath of the trees__
Fall the copper-red rays of the passionless sun.
On the pavements of green, spotted brown by the run
Of leather-bound crunchers — horn’d stars on the mead,
Seeking pleasure or profit re-chewing the reed;
But the picture grows dimmer as fainting day falls,
And the hill looms a shadow with turreted walls.
Silence smiles, she is mistress disturbance is dead.
O you boasting, black beetle, cease buzzing my head!
Let me look while I may, ere the falling of gloom,
At the bright bougainvillea blood drenched in the bloom;
If you tumble me hence, I’ll be stung with regrets
By the pierce of the cactuses’ sharp bayonets!
My feet are gold-bound in a magical trap,
And the charms with a mantle my reason enwrap;
That evil old master of myriad wives
Must have cactused the garden to dagger their lives!
Smile Charlotte, my sweet, your past knowledge is writ,
I think but the half, but you know all of it.