Pavane of Seven Peacocks
C. F. Macintyre
PAVANE OF SEVEN PEACOCKS
Slow where sunny grasses shine and flowers updigged from Ophir's mine, seven peacocks in a line . . . slow, slow, they pass.
Stately, proud in bronze and green, lazuli and tourmaline, opal, iris, smaragdine,
seven peacocks pass.
Not a mort-note do they sing, move not panache, nor stir wing; on a solemn journeying
slow, slow, they pass.
Argus-arrogance spread wide, condescending in their pride to bow this side and t'other side, slow, slow, they pass.
Tick of death-watch is their tread.
Gravely, as if mass were read and the benediction said, dancing for the golden dead, seven peacocks pass.