House of falling leaves with other poems / William Braithwaite [electronic text]

TO LAURENCE HOPE

ALL the world of deep desire loves your song, Touched of joy by starlight when the moon hangs low; Filled with all the odors that arise and throng All the secret memories delight can know. Like your bulbuls singing when the dusk's in bloom How your music stirs us till our joys make pain— Pain the flower of passion's most tender doom, Sum of all that life may lose and death may gain. For the dreams you gave to music, sure and strong, All the world of deep desire loves your song.

First in you the poetess, throned high and crowned In the soul of us who mate a dream to rhyme; We who wander strangely in the lure you've wound Flowerful 'round the passions you have made sublime Was there ever poetess since Sappho sang Who could match the fever of your pulsing blood? Love that drew from the harp of life joy and pang, How your playing rose and filled our hearts to flood; We, your singing brothers, now chaunted and found First in you the poetess, throned high and crowned.