Five James Joyce Poems

The twilight turns from amethyst 
  To deep and deeper blue, 
The lamp fills with a pale green glow 
  The trees of the avenue. 

The old piano plays an air, 
  Sedate and slow and gay; 
She bends upon the yellow keys, 
  Her head inclines this way. 

Shy thoughts and grave wide eyes and hands 
  That wander as they list? 
The twilight turns to darker blue 
  With lights of amethyst.

 When the shy star goes forth in heaven 
   All maidenly, disconsolate, 
 Hear you amid the drowsy even 
   One who is singing by your gate. 
 His song is softer than the dew 
   And he is come to visit you. 

 O bend no more in revery 
   When he at eventide is calling, 
 Nor muse: Who may this singer be 
   Whose song about my heart is falling 
 Know you by this, the lover's chant, 
   'Tis I that am your visitant.

Go seek her out all courteously,
    And say I come, 
Wind of spices whose song is ever
    Epithalamium. 
O, hurry over the dark lands
    And run upon the sea 
For seas and lands shall not divide us
    My love and me.

Now, wind, of your good courtesy
    I pray you go, 
And come into her little garden
    And sing at her window; 
Singing: The bridal wind is blowing
    For Love is at his noon; 
And soon will your true love be with you,
    Soon, O soon.

What counsel has the hooded moon
    Put in thy heart, my shyly sweet, 
Of Love in ancient plenilune,
    Glory and stars beneath his feet -- - 
A sage that is but kith and kin
    With the comedian Capuchin?

Believe me rather that am wise
    In disregard of the divine, 
A glory kindles in those eyes
    Trembles to starlight. Mine, O Mine! 
No more be tears in moon or mist
For thee, sweet sentimentalist.

Because your voice was at my side 
 I gave him pain, 
Because within my hand I held 
  Your hand again. 

There is no word nor any sign 
 Can make amend 
He is a stranger to me now 
 Who was my friend.