I
MUSIC, on the air's edge, rides alone, 
Plumed like empastured Caesars of the sky 
With a god's helmet; now, in the gold dye 
Of sunlight, the iron cloak, the Tuscan stone, 
Melt to enchanted flesh?a voice is blown 
Down from the windy pit, like a star falling. 
Men think it is a lost eagle calling, 
But the fool and the lover know it for Music's cry. 
He is running with the Valkyrs on a road of manes, 
Darkness draws back its fur, the stars course by, 
Fighting the windy beaks of hurricanes 
To keep their stations in the sky? 
Away, away! The little earth-light wanes, 
The moon has drowned herself, cold music rings, 
The battering of a thousand Vulcanals 
Hammers the blood; a thousand horsemen fly 
Belly to air, away! Now Music sings 
Harshly, like horns of Tartars blown on high. 
II
A SHIP in hell marooned; 
He lies under the mast, 
Caked with the sticky unguents of the sun. 
Sluggishly at his wound, 
The rat Pain, biting with bloody teeth 
And broken nails, is fed at last, 
The tale is done. 
Let the shell of bleeding flesh remain, 
This crusted finery is nothing worth. 
He flings his body carelessly to Pain, 
Meat for the earth. 
Trumpets of godhood! The voice of Music sings, 
Lost in the dark forest, riding out, 
Louder and nearer, with triumphant wings, 
Music and his eternal cavaliers? 
Now Tristan rises with a mighty shout. 
Nobody hears. 
III
O, SILENT night, dark beach, 
Drowning like lovers, each in each, 
Uncharge thy musky boughs, unbend 
Thy mouths of air, and give them speech? 
Then, like a nest of thieves, 
The golden, tattling leaves 
Will sell their mask for bravoes' love, 
Or cry their fruit to stranger Eves, 
And voices ride 
By foam and field 
Of drowsy lovers, lips unsealed, 
Blown to the lazy tide? 
'With love we put the planets out, 
With kissing drowned the bells, 
And struck the clambering moon to ice; 
Now we shall sleep and hide . . . ' 
I sang with Nonie, side by side, 
Sunk in a drift of tumbled laces, 
Till Music breathed his enormous flute 
Over our small, upturned faces. 
IV
IN the pans of straw-coned country 
This river is the solitary traveller; 
Nothing else moves, the sky lies empty, 
Birds there are none, and cattle not many. 
Now it is sunlight, what is the difference? 
Nothing. The sun is as white as moonlight. 
Wind has buffeted flat the grasses, 
Long, long ago; but now there is nothing, 
Wind gone and men gone, only the water 
Stumbling over the stones in silence? 
Nothing but fields with roots gone rotten, 
Paddocks unploughed and clotted marshes. 
Even the wind that stirred them has vanished, 
Only the river remains with its water, 
Shambling over the straw-coned country. 
Nothing else moves, the sky lies empty, 
Only the river remains with its water, 
And droughts will come . . . . 
V
IN and out the countryfolk, the carriages and carnival, 
Pastry-cooks in all directions push to barter their confections, 
Trays of little gilded cakes, caramels in painted flakes, 
Marzipan of various makes and macaroons of all complexions, 
Riding on a tide of country faces. 
Up and down the smoke and crying, 
Girls with apple-eyes are flying, 
Country boys in costly braces 
Run with red, pneumatic faces; 
Trumpets gleam, whistles scream, 
Organs cough their coloured steam out, 
Dogs are worming, sniffing, squirming; 
Air-balloons and paper moons, 
Roundabouts with curdled tunes, 
Drowned bassoons and waggon-jacks; 
Tents like flowers of candle-wax; 
'Buy, buy, buy, buy! 
Cotton ties, cakes and pies, what a size, test your eyes, hairdyes, 
candy-shies, all a prize, penny tries, no lies, watch it rise, 
buy, buy, buy, buy!' 
So everybody buys. 
Gently the doctor of magic mutters, 
Opens his puppet-stall, 
Pulls back the painted shutters, 
Ruffles the golden lace. 
Ha! The crowd flutters . . . 
Reddened and sharp and small, 
O, Petroushka's face! 
VI
TORCHES and running fire; the flagstones drip 
Like a black mirror, wet from killing. Smoke goes up, 
Clouding the gilded rafter-birds, and the flying cup 
That floats with magic wine to Konchak's lip. 
Then the Khan claps his beard, and harps are brushed 
Clear in the darkness; dancers' bells far off 
Blab at their ankles. Now, from the gold trough, 
We have dipped bowls of mare's milk; all is hushed. 
Suddenly, dull bubbling drums uprise, grow thicker, 
Split with a scream of metal?glazed in the flare, 
Tartar girls rapidly whirl in storms of animal hair, 
Spinning in islands of movement, quicker and quicker. 
In the middle of the dance, smiling at his whim, 
Khan Konchak rose, and left the golden hall. 
Soon there was silent darkness over all. 
One of the dancers was sen