. The Saturday evening post. sea gulls,Lovely in the sun. My body stays in bondage Upon the shore, I know;But lazily float the sea gulls Like great flakes of float the sea gulls, Drifting in the thoughts are bright as sea gulls, Their flight as true. They scorn the towns, the shore line;Their home is in the sky; They joy to breast the tempest,My thoughts, more strong than I. Mean household tasks may hold meAnd four walls conquer me, But my thoughts are sea gullsLifting out to sea. —Mary Carolyn Davies. Pierrot Was My First Love PIERROT was my first love,That due to him belo
. The Saturday evening post. sea gulls,Lovely in the sun. My body stays in bondage Upon the shore, I know;But lazily float the sea gulls Like great flakes of float the sea gulls, Drifting in the thoughts are bright as sea gulls, Their flight as true. They scorn the towns, the shore line;Their home is in the sky; They joy to breast the tempest,My thoughts, more strong than I. Mean household tasks may hold meAnd four walls conquer me, But my thoughts are sea gullsLifting out to sea. —Mary Carolyn Davies. Pierrot Was My First Love PIERROT was my first love,That due to him stood beneath my windowAnd sang old songs. All the songs of battles And knights that ride;Songs about that love for which Once men died. Pierrot called me softly,Beneath the with me, he whispered, To the worlds edge! To the edge of the blue worldAnd the end of the sea!So, while all the house slept,He spoke to me. The moon was his comrade,The night his , my dear, he whispered, To the earths The stars were his servantsAnd his house the road. His words were a spur to me,A lure, a goad. Pierrot was my first love! Moonlight on his hair!Oh, his eyes of laughter! Oh, his gallant air! But you should not be jealous, Nor yet frown so;Ill tell you, love, a secret If you bend low: Whether he came at eighteen Or at twenty-five,Pierrot was the first love Of every girl alive! —Mary Carolyn Davies. Hong-Kong, the Place of SweetLagoons TO THE west of the fair Pacific,Hemmed in by the lesser seas,Lies a tiny twelve-mile island, An Orient queen at ease;And if you have ever been there Where the foam-tipped wavelet croons,Youll feel a poignant longingFor the Place of Sweet Lagoons; For the violet haze of the mountains, For the clear, cool, tropic nights,For the pink and gold of the sunsets, And the Peak with its myriad lights;For the while road past the barracks, For the junks on the Kowloon side,For the Bund with Us bustle and clatter And the lap of the lazy
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