(_From "Judith"_)
Balkis was in her marble town,
And shadow over the world came down.
Whiteness of walls, towers and piers,
That all day dazzled eyes to tears,
Turned from being white-golden flame,
And like the deep-sea blue became.
Balkis into her garden went;
Her spirit was in discontent
Like a torch in restless air.
Joylessly she wandered there,
And saw her city's azure white
Lying under the great night,
Beautiful as the memory
Of a worshipping world would be
In the mind of a god, in the hour
When he must kill his outward power;
And, coming to a pool where trees
Grew in double greeneries,
Saw herself, as she went by
The water, walking beautifully,
And saw the stars shine in the glance
Of her eyes, and her own fair countenance
Passing, pale and wonderful,
Across the night that filled the pool.
And cruel was the grief that played
With the queen's spirit; and she said:
"What do I here, reigning alone?
For to be unloved is to be alone.
There is no man in all my land
Dare my longing understand;
The whole folk like a peasant bows
Lest its look should meet my brows
And be harmed by this beauty of mine.
I burn their brains as I were sign
Of God's beautiful anger sent
To master them with punishment
Of beauty that must pour distress
On hearts grown dark with ugliness.
But it is I am the punisht one.
Is there no man, is there none,
In whom my beauty will but move
The lust of a delighted love;
In whom some spirit of God so thrives
That we may wed our lonely lives.
Is there no man, is there none?"--
She said, "I will go to Solomon."
_James Elroy Flecker_
Another remarkable poet whose early death was a blow to English
literature, James Elroy Flecker, was born in London, November 5, 1884.
Possibly due to his low vitality, Flecker found little to interest him
but a classical reaction against realism in verse, a delight in verbal
craftsmanship, and a passion for technical perfection--especially the
deliberate technique of the French Parnassians whom he worshipped.
Flecker was opposed to any art that was emotional or that "taught"
anything. "The poet's business," he declared, "is not to save the soul
of man, but to make it worth saving."
The advent of the war began to make Flecker's verse more personal and
romantic. The tuberculosis that finally killed him at Davos Platz,
Switzerland, January 3, 1915, forced him from an Olympian disinterest
to a deep concern with life and death. He passionately denied that he
was weary of living "as the pallid poets are," and he was attempting
higher flights of song when his singing ceased altogether.
His two colorful volumes are _The Golden Journey to Samarkand_ (1913)
and _The Old Ships_ (1915).