The Night before the Parade

BIRDS are calling through the rain,

Glass bells dropping across the patter of falling rain.

The garden soaks, and breathes, and lifts up the spear-green leaves of tulips
And the long, golden mouths of daffodils
To the downpour,
And the high blossoms of forsythia
Tremble vaguely, and bend to let the rain run off them
And spill over the little red peony fronds
Uncurling at their feet.
It is wet, and cool, and pleasant.
Why should words rattle upon this quietness?
"Adders writhe from the sunken eyes
Of statues, in Persepolis."

Clashes of bells bursting in a grey sky,

And a clock striking jubilees of brass hours, one after another.
Gas-jets flicker, and spin sudden lights across the battle-flags draped to the pillars.
The church sighs in the evening rain,
Kneeling beneath the dim clouds in a stillness of adoration.

Beauty of stone, of glass, of memories,
Worshipful beauty spotted by the snarl of words --
"Adders writhe from the sunken eyes
Of statues, in Persepolis."

They have put up stands,

Flimsy wooden stands to crush out the little green life of the grass.

To-morrow the crowds will cheer,
And the streets will shine with flags and gilding.
The people will shout themselves hoarse
When the green helmets and the white bayonets

Sweep along the streets.

Only the little grass-blades will cry and languish,

Weeping: "We are the cousins of the grasses of France,

The kind grasses who cover the graves of those you have forgotten."

Then they will hiss under the cruel stands,
And the words will run, and glare, and brighten:
"Adders writhe from the sunken eyes
Of statues, in Persepolis."

Rain on a roofless city,

Rain over broken walls and towers scattered to a ring of ruins,
Pale splendours of hard stone melted to the purple bloom of orchises,
And poppies thrust between the basalt paving-blocks of roads leading to a waste of blue-tongued thistles.

Where did I see this?

Not in the leafless branches of the ash-tree,
Not in the glitter of my wet window-sill,
Not in the smooth garden filling itself with good rain.
There are fireworks to-night,
The first for two years.
And listen to the rain!
Listen -- listen --
Prayers, and flowers, and a booming of guns.
It blurs --
Do I hear anything?
What are you reading?
"Adders writhe from the sunken eyes,
Of statues, in Persepolis