Poems (Forrest)/Blue tiles
BLUE TILES
Among the hardware merchant's window showWith 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 plotOf villa grass (a quick relief!) it smilesThe happy blue of unexpected tiles!Some swarthy Persian first conceived this blue.A turbaned gentleman in a bazaar,Much travelled, who had carried from afarStrange legends of the City of the MoonIn liquid Urdu, droning thro' the noon,When others slept, in fancy wandering onThro' 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 dearWas of a summer's evening, tranquil, clear, When behind two harsh towers the heavens looked thro'In one soft sweep of unforgotten blue.He swore by his long beard that Allah sentThis message to him: he should be contentWith the brown earth He gave, the prophet's greenOf waving grass: the blue of heaven seenThro' the tall towers men builded, for it mustBe just as blue when men and towers were dust.
So he returned to his own land, and stroveBy the oil-lamp and into moth-filled duskBehind the fretted screen, while the inviting muskFrom floating garments of white dancing girlsWhispered to him in vain. Where incense curlsIn the dim mosque, his thoughts from Allah strayedTo mixing dyes that fadeless colour made!And from his toil the countless ages thro',Comes to a hardware shop the Persian blue.
And yet I see, where some smug grate beguiles,A malice in the hand that wrought these tiles!