Sandalwood

Upon thy separate road (Thou, who hast chosen the world's appointed way) My songs shall be as the perfume of sandalwood Borne by a secret wind from form-lost irretrievable islands, Where the hibiscus bowers of our love, And the palaces of roseate marble, With all their vine-caught pillars, Were dreamt, but never builded. And through the clanging tumult of thy days, A rumour of phantom chords, Of dulcimers destroyed, And lutes that might have been, Shall call and cry to thee as the burden of my songs; And thou shalt hear the spectral fountains fall, Delicious as the laughter Of ghosts of amorous women, Of flowers that never were; And winds that flee, exiguous and faint, Like the sighs of long-dead lovers, Through seedless gardens without place or name. And thou shalt know What immaterial myrtles, pale and sweet As the breasts of love-worn queens, Or flushed as with a maiden's glowing blood, Were strewn to make The forfeit couch where two shall never come; And know What topaz or what Tyrian-coloured wines The palm-entrellised grapes Withhold in lost Cocaigne.