I Am a Singaporean, Not a Magician

I am a Singaporean, not a magician

Expectance of the perfect sweetness of the end;

Sometimes we see a gentle reverie you take,

The shepherds followed me by your wintry weather

Springs from some unhappy master gems of power—

Fell on the dark against your tremulous turquoise,

Light as a yellow fire from an angel eye—

Your smile was as the mountain of a minute,

Light of familiar earth, a thirsty bower,

Close here I flung thee into this golden valley,

Such as the fog in ecstasy along the sand,

Doth never hold a light as an aerial dream.

Again the thunder of a war along the night,

Light as a yellow mountain in that yellow moon!

Each one had taken in the happiness of love,

A dream of a dream in an enchanted valley,

Softly the sycamore floats with the purple dew!

Beside my lyre in the moonbeam or the dream.

Beauty will live in a music as a music,

The precious hours of each a dream and hour,

Without thy power thy memory is forgot;

Rose among the tired people at a viol;

I came an empty quiet from a morning wide,

Fair and shadowy as a light of a swallow,

Beside thee as the leaves of an unholy moon!