BUCOLIC COMEDY: ROSE (IMITATED FROM SKELTON) by EDITH SITWELL

IN the fields like an Indian mazery
That the foolish moon has flowered,
Rose Bertin is walking lazily where
The fringe of the field is bowered

With trees as dark as the ancient creeds
Of China and of Ind . . .
Rose Bertin walks through the fields' pearled weeds
Where haunts the satyr wind.

"Where are you going to, my pretty maid,"
That negroid satyr sighs . . .
"To feed my pretty chucks, sir," she said --
"Each feathered thing that flies.

To feed them with the sun's gold grains
In the fields' sparse Indian chintz;
But now those grains are spilt like rains,
And still light feathery glints

Fly in my brain." . . . Those bright birds flock,
The butterbump, the urban
Ranee stork, the turkey-cock
(Red paladin in a turban),

The crane who talks through his long nose,
The plump and foolish quail --
In their feathered robes they follow Rose,
And never once they fail.

And Harriet, Susan, Rose and Polly,
Silken and frilled as a pigeon
Sleek them and praise the golden folly
That made laughing Rose a religion.

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