II—A Dream of November

Far, far away, I know not where, I know not how,1
The skies are grey, the boughs are bare, bare boughs in
flower :
Long lilac silk is softly drawn from bough to bough,3
With flowers of milk and buds of fawn, a broidered shower.4
Beneath that tent an Empress sits, with slanted eyes,5
And wafts of scent from censers flit, a lilac flood ;6
Around her throne bloom peach and plum in lacquered dyes,7
And many a blown chrysanthemum, and many a bud.8
She sits and dreams, while bonzes twain strike some rich bell,9
Whose music seems a metal rain of radiant dye ;10
In this strange birth of various blooms, I cannot tell11
Which spring from earth, which slipped from looms, which
sank from sky.
Beneath her wings of lilac dim, in robes of blue,13
The Empress sings a wordless hymn that thrills her bower ;14
My trance unweaves, and winds, and shreds, and forms anew15
Dark bronze, bright leaves, pure silken threads, in triple flower.16