The fountain bent and straightened itself

In the night wind,

Blowing like a flower.

It gleamed and glittered,

A tall white lily,

Under the eye of the golden moon.

From a stone seat,

Beneath a blossoming lime,

The man watched it.

And the spray pattered

On the dim grass at his feet.

The fountain tossed its water,

Up and up, like silver marbles.

Is that an arm he sees?

And for one moment

Does he catch the moving curve

Of a thigh?

The fountain gurgled and splashed,

And the man’s face was wet.

Is it singing that he hears?

A song of playing at ball?

The moonlight shines on the straight column of water,

And through it he sees a woman,

Tossing the water-balls.

Her breasts point outwards,

And the nipples are like buds of peonies.

Her flanks ripple as she plays,

And the water is not more undulating

Than the lines of her body.

“Come,” she sings, “Poet!

Am I not worth more than your day ladies,

Covered with awkward stuffs,

Unreal, unbeautiful?

What do you fear in taking me?

In the morning the gardeners came to their work.

“There is something in the fountain”, said one.

They shuddered as they laid their dead master

On the grass.

“I will close his eyes”, said the head gardener,

“It is uncanny to see a dead man staring at the sun.”

Outside the long window,

With his head on the stone sill,

The dog is lying,

Gazing at his Beloved.

His eyes are wet and urgent,

And his body is taut and shaking.

It is cold on the terrace;

A pale wind licks along the stone slabs,

But the dog gazes through the glass

And is content.

The Beloved is writing a letter.

Occasionally she speaks to the dog,

But she is thinking of her writing.

Does she, too, give her devotion to one

Not worthy?