For Phyllida, Putting On Her Hat.


Blue ice, blue fire, faces of blue baboons,
Blue milk, the melancholy blue of moons,
Blue-apron’d butchers menacing blue flies,
Blue water in blue distance of blue skies.
Blue-stockings dancing reckless rigadoons
To chase blue devils in the dismal noons,
Blue-wreathing smoke, the blue of bloomy prunes,
Blue crabs and blue turquoises, but Her eyes Blue.

Her bluest veins loiter in kissing runes,
Lovers’ blue study since those Royal Spoons
Stirred the blue dusk of Egypt with their sighs
And our Cythera down the harbour lies:
(Let’s hope the Nocent Waterspout WON’T rise!)
“Embark!” She signals, for Her Hat’s (eftsoons!) Blue.

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