It's not that I'm running out of steam posting poems to this thread but I'm only posting the ones that stick in my mind and there are only a few left of that quality. Here's another by Burt Franklin Jenness which, while too long to sing, refuses to be ignored:

The Lure of the East

This is the spell of the Orient –
The lure of the far, far East,
A lure that is soft and luxuriant –
A bidding to sate of a feast
That is spread with the viands of pleasure,
Replenished again and again;
And music, each sensuous measure
Attuned to the passions of men;
In a land where little is given –
Where the game is to buy and sell;
In a land with the virtues of Heaven –
A land with the sinning of Hell.

You come to the East with a conscience
And the failures of others to guide;
For a while you are upright and honest –
And God only knows how you tried;
Striving at first to be decent –
Fighting, and losing the fight;
Taking a drink to be social –
Hitting it up for the night;
Then you fall, like the other poor devils –
Succumb with a grace of your fate;
It's the spell of the East that has got you,
As it gets them all, soon or late.

It's the lure of the fly to the grayling –
Gaudy, and brilliant hued;
But men are the fools who are trailing –
And Satan is casting the food;
It's the call of the quail in the cover –
The lure of the flame to the moth;
The call of the thrush for its lover –
The call of the mate to betroth;
Softly at first it steals o'er you –
Dreamy and sweet, like a breath
Of incense or sandal, o'erwhelming
Your senses, and silent as death;
Till the air grows heavy with perfume –
You're happy, without and within,
Little you care for what may be –
And less for what might have been.

The blissful siesta a midday –
The drive, in the late afternoon;
And then for the nightly revel –
Women, and wine, and the moon;
The feasting, the music, the dancing –
The clandestine moments between;
The sweet-scented gardens enhancing
A flight from the ball-room scene;
White shoulders agleam in the moonlight,
A form that is truly divine;
Eyes with the dull glow of passion –
Tongues that are loosened by wine;
The clinking of glasses, and pledges
Sealed with a kiss of champagne;
Rollicking songs and laughter –
A speech from a reeling brain.

Women as fair as a lily –
Hair that glistens and glows;
Skin with the softness of velvet,
And white as Fuji's snows;
Lips with the blush of roses,
Eyes that sparkle with wine;
The perfume of blown cheery blossoms,
And flowered wistaria vine;
But the roses will fade in the morning,
When the rouge and the powder are gone;
The eyes will cease to be sparkling –
The cheeks will be pale and wan.

You are down in the native quarter
Taking a last little fling,
Where the samisens creak their weird melodies,
And the geisha girls dance and sing;
The stars are reeling and dancing,
And love is afloat on the breeze;
Virtue is drowned in a bumper –
And care in the seven seas;
The tropical moon is a bibber –
And he's not the only one;
The bubbles of life are bursting –
And the night is not half begun.

Alone in your ricksha at day-break –
Remorseful, and bitter with hate;
Back to your ship, or your barracks –
Going on duty at eight.

And so the night's revel is ended –
And all of the nights are the same;
Some are more hellish than others,
But none of the nights are tame;
Thus it has been from beginning –
Thus will it be to the end;
A power that draws men to sinning –
A force that will crush, and will rend;
A lure that is soft and luxuriant –
A bidding to sate of a feast;
This is the spell of the Orient –
The lure of the far, far East.

Notes:

From MAN-O'-WAR RHYMES, edited by Burt Franklin Jenness, originally published by The Cornhill Publishing Co., Boston, US, © 1918, pp. 88-91; available as a new paperback reprint from Kessinger Publishing.

This one kind of fits in with Kipling's "Road to Mandalay" but there's more pain here than nostalgia.


Charley Noble