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The Fan

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Written by Dame Edith Sitwell

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 LOVELY Semiramis 
Closes her slanting eyes: 
Dead is she long ago.
From her fan, sliding slow, Parrot-bright fire's feathers, Gilded as June weathers, Plumes bright and shrill as grass Twinkle down; as they pass Through the green glooms in Hell Fruits with a tuneful smell, Grapes like an emerald rain, Where the full moon has lain, Greengages bright as grass, Melons as cold as glass, Piled on each gilded booth, Feel their cheeks growing smooth.
Apes in plumed head-dresses Whence the bright heat hisses,-- Nubian faces, sly Pursing mouth, slanting eye, Feel the Arabian Winds floating from the fan.

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