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Addressed to the Seric Poetry
January 20, 2023
Hadst thou not with soft lilied fingers thrilled
The strings of love’s harp, inviting me to hearken
Yesternight, when the golden beaker was fill’d
With osmanthus-brew’d wine, the couch with a vision?
Thou of the desert, the wind, the wingèd steed,
Thou of the mist, the flow'rs, the riverside town:
Hadst thou not reserved Poesy for seed,
That would bud into the bay wherewith a crown
Would be woven, the loveliest crown of bay?
Hadst thou not obnubilat’d the occidental sun
’Fore mine eyes? Facing the high clouds of Cathay,
Yet, how could I not deem myself a swan?
Therefore ’twas not thee who cumber me evermore,
But that dungeon miscalled the height, Confucian lore.
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