A Feast of Lanterns, by L. Cranmer-Byng, [1916]
IN EXILE
Through the green blinds that shelter me Two butterflies at play— Four wings of flame whirl joyously Around me and away; While swallows breasting to the shore Ripple the waves they wander o’er.
And I that scan the distant view Of torn white clouds and mountains blue Lift to the north my aching eyes; ’Tis there—’tis there the city lies! Chang-an arise! arise!