Alien

O I am homesick every day For places I shall never stay.

For tinkling bells in Samarkand Where shadows weave a saraband, And London streets and Paris nights And O a thousand warm delights In places strange and far from here And . . . (naturellement) doubly dear!

Cameo

I can't insult my heart again By crying over gentlemen.

But rather trot it out to tea With ladies of gentility, Whose talk and bread sliced neat and thin Will lift me from the straits I'm in!

Renegade

Part of me is sad as sad And part of me is glad as glad.

Part of me is pure as pure, And part of me . . . I'm not so sure.

At odds within myself I be, And blame it on my Family Tree!

Mask

You may make your mouth up Scarlet as a courtesan's . . .

Thin sophistication Lurks in scarlet paint Even masked in satire Still your eyes betray you Playing tarnished lady Funny little saint!

If This be Good ...

If this be good Then it shall last Far past the rasp Of s.e.xton's spade . . .

Far past the snow of winter laid On sleeping garden; Some part of this will still endure On Time's wide stream; Some single sure enchanted moment Caught up in s.p.a.ce will shine forever.

And in my heart I'm very sure Which little moment will endure!

Disenchanted

They always say, "Be good, sweet child And let who will ... be clever".

But does this course pay dividends?

I answer . . . hardly ever!

Figment

It's snowing feathers to-day.

Bits of maribou From some very frivolous angel's Bed-Jacket!

Unbiased Comment

Small furry creatures part with life To deck each plutocratic wife.

And many a tender throat is wrapt In silky softness someone trapped.

I don't condemn this savage rite Nor wince to see the endless sight Of lovely ladies wrapt in fur . . .

Egad! I only wish I were!

Venomous Woman

She has avaricious fingers On which there lingers The bitter scent of almonds.

Poisonous woman!

How her nails Glitter in the candlelight.

Only her eyes Suddenly tear you apart.

There is a look in them Of one who gazed on death And found it Beautiful!

Bookshops

Bookshops have a lovely smell Sweet and sour . . . heaven and h.e.l.l.

Dust and mould, and something magic, Laughter, cheek by jowl with tragic Songs the Muses used to sing . . .

I love bookshops, in the spring!