Amidst the strife of clamorous speeches
And eager gold-snatching hands,
The soul grows faint for the yellow beaches,
The loneliness of the wind-swept reaches,
And the calm of Eastern lands.
My foot is athrill for the steel of the stirrup,
My palms are astir for the grip of an oar
The whole of my body is sick for the sea
And the peace of a desolate shore.
Perhaps you gave me what you call love,
(I had called it another name)
But anyway, I am tired of playing
Take all the stakes of the sorry game.
I wonder you thought me worth betraying.
But what is there now that is worth the saying
Since the end must be the same?
I shall piece together my broken youth,
If aught of youth remain,
And when at last the wreck of me reaches,
Beyond the lilt of persuasive speeches,
(I question if ever you spoke the truth)
The palm-tree shade of the coral beeches
The cool retreat of the Cinnamon grove,
Peace will find me again.
For Youth, who sleeps so soundly and so well,
On any couch and under any stars,
Shall join with Rest and weave a magic spell
To soothe the memory of my prison bars.
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