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Kenneth Slessor - Marco Polo
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READING how Marco Polo came 
 By bridle-path to Kanbalu, 
 Forgotten fibres wake to flame, 
 And smoke old memories anew . . . . 
 For in a bygone life of mine 
 I watched the carven rampart shine, 
 Where Kublai`s five-clawed dragons glowed 
 Like painted wyverns, line on line. 
 And past those plaster dragon-heads, 
 Those frescoes cut with curious flowers, 
 In verdigris and lilac-reds 
 Old tiles gleamed on the crusted towers, 
 While bridges cleft of serpent-stone 
 Bowed by their side, like branches blown 
 From some high granite Tree of Life 
 Whose roots were coiled round Kublai`s throne. 
 O myrtles on the Jasper Mount, 
 O forest-towered elephants, 
 And fire-fish in the topaz fount 
 With red fins blown like water-plants, 
 And green cornelian tortoise-rows 
 Below the aqueduct, and those 
 Gold-feathered cranes, I saw them all, 
 How many ages gone, who knows? 
 I saw tall gilded Tartars pass 
 Behind their marble balustrades, 
 With maces made of beaten brass 
 And turquoise-hafted sabre-blades. 
 I heard the little golden bells 
 Blow faintly down the citadels, 
 And spied those ivory courts within 
 Through windows of transparent shells. 
 But past the fountain-pools I peered, 
 Beyond the birds, to that divan, 
 Where, fingering his tawny beard, 
 In silence dreamed the splendid Khan. 
 Green china bowls of wine were there, 
 And oranges and milk-of-mare, 
 While, stamping on his jewelled wrist, 
 A falcon climbed with eyes aflare. 
 He`s gone; and with him, flowers and birds, 
 And old Venetians too, have died; 
 Yet burnt in Marco Polo`s words, 
 Those unforgotten splendours hide . . . 
 And, tired of life`s new-fashioned plan, 
 I long to be barbarian. 
 I`m sick of modern men, I wish 
 You were still living, Kublai-Khan!
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