NG 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!
