In Siamese Waters
There is an island like a sickle moon
That lies deserted in a tropic sea,
Half-finished terraces of masonry
Lead up to heights that know the cool monsoon,
Sweet odors hold the silence in a swoon,
For everywhere the frangipanni tree,
Twisted and leafless, but all blossomy,
Traces its scented shadow in the noon.
That lies deserted in a tropic sea,
Half-finished terraces of masonry
Lead up to heights that know the cool monsoon,
Sweet odors hold the silence in a swoon,
For everywhere the frangipanni tree,
Twisted and leafless, but all blossomy,
Traces its scented shadow in the noon.
Paths lead to shaded grottoes and small coves
Meant for a royal lady's bathing-place,
But no one moves among the warm strange groves,
The shining sea reflects no leaning face,
There are not even ghosts, or so it seems,
To wake the spot from its enchanted dreams.
Meant for a royal lady's bathing-place,
But no one moves among the warm strange groves,
The shining sea reflects no leaning face,
There are not even ghosts, or so it seems,
To wake the spot from its enchanted dreams.
