The Fan

 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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