Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/118

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Blooms forever, and ever the shrill-voiced singersChant that Allah is Allah, and man is as rain and dust.Yield to me therefore, Pomegranate Flower! Thy lipsAre heavy with love, thine eyes are riddles, thine hairHath woven the night about thy face, its moon!And eunuch and slave and the throbbing tambourinesAnd the dancing girls and thy master, O Star, are dreams,And only the Gardener's Son with the close-cropped golden hair,And thou, Beloved, we two together and love,Only these three abide, but abide for a moment, and go.
Scheherazade!Scheherazade!
The FreemanHoward Mumford Jones


OH, WHEN I DIE—
The poet names his burial-stead. That string is frayed by long-stilled hands.And few, I guess, have the bed Their half-forgotten verse demands. To worn string and futile pleaListen awhile: when I am deadAfter all, bury me Underneath an Apple Tree.
 Underneath an Apple Tree—Let the grim roots work their will—Grip, suck, strain, distil.The debtor's body for the debt, For all the happily heavy scoreOf many a revel, against me set Plain on the Orchard Tavern's door.

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