BLUE TILES
Among the hardware merchant's window show
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
Thro' 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,
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
Thro' 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,
