The Orient

LIFE is a flower I scarcely breathe, for pain
Is every earthly perfume after a while.
My fancy is queen of the Enamelled Isle,
I know men go, and that the hour is vain.

My delicate joys are made of porcelain,
To keep them whole I use much care and guile;
And my yellow tea's blue steam bears many a mile
In scented flight my sorrows from my brain.

I live in a pink kiosk in Wonderland,
And all day long see from my window-frame
The golden rivers in blue landscapes, and,

A royal poet robed in purple dye,
I watch my revery, a butterfly,
Flit round the flowery fan from which it came.