GREETINGS
If there should come to you, blown down the wind(Above the smoke and soot and stealthy catsThat ramble inwards on the dingy roofs,High-pitched child-voices in obscure backyardsAnd all this chorus of unlovely things)A breath of roses, as though Eastern jarsHad slipped their lashings on the donkey's back,Met a sly kick in falling, or crashed hardAgainst the stained steps of an ancient mosque:While filthy beggars whined and sniffed and scrapedAbout the wreckage, wondering if it heldAmid the shattered dragons of the delfA sugared sweetmeat rolled in cinnamon,Cursing the small white donkey, when they foundOnly the rose-leaves of a summer dead—If this scent comes to you o'er chimney pots,Blown weathercocks and half a million tiles,To tell of sleepy, dew-bathed carmine budsOr big round yellow blooms with petals proudFor just one day, night finding them grass-strewn,Oh, you will know 'twas I who laced the windWith an old dream of roses that we knew!
