READING how Marco Polo came 
By bridle-path to Kanbalu, 
Forgotten fibres wake to flame, 
And smoke old memories anew . . . . 
For in a bygone life of mine 
I watched the carven rampart shine, 
Where Kublai's five-clawed dragons glowed 
Like painted wyverns, line on line. 
And past those plaster dragon-heads, 
Those frescoes cut with curious flowers, 
In verdigris and lilac-reds 
Old tiles gleamed on the crusted towers, 
While bridges cleft of serpent-stone 
Bowed by their side, like branches blown 
From some high granite Tree of Life 
Whose roots were coiled round Kublai's throne. 
O myrtles on the Jasper Mount, 
O forest-towered elephants, 
And fire-fish in the topaz fount 
With red fins blown like water-plants, 
And green cornelian tortoise-rows 
Below the aqueduct, and those 
Gold-feathered cranes, I saw them all, 
How many ages gone, who knows? 
I saw tall gilded Tartars pass 
Behind their marble balustrades, 
With maces made of beaten brass 
And turquoise-hafted sabre-blades. 
I heard the little golden bells 
Blow faintly down the citadels, 
And spied those ivory courts within 
Through windows of transparent shells. 
But past the fountain-pools I peered, 
Beyond the birds, to that divan, 
Where, fingering his tawny beard, 
In silence dreamed the splendid Khan. 
Green china bowls of wine were there, 
And oranges and milk-of-mare, 
While, stamping on his jewelled wrist, 
A falcon climbed with eyes aflare. 
He's gone; and with him, flowers and birds, 
And old Venetians too, have died; 
Yet burnt in Marco Polo's words, 
Those unforgotten splendours hide . . . 
And, tired of life's new-fashioned plan, 
I long to be barbarian. 
I'm sick of modern men, I wish 
You were still living, Kublai-Khan!