New Magic

New Magic

by Kenneth Slessor

At last I know—it’s on old ivory jars, Glassed with old miniatures and garnered once with musk.

I’ve seen those eyes like smouldering April stars as carp might see them behind their bubbled skies in pale green fishponds—they’re as green as your eyes,

As lakes themselves, changed to green stone at dusk. At last I know—it’s paned in a crystal hoop, On powder-boxes from some dead Italian girl, I’ve seen such eyes grow suddenly dark, and droop.

Their small, pure lids, as if I’d pried too far, In finding you snared there on that ivory jar. By crusted motes of rose and smoky-pearl.

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