Confusion in the Occident

Some were content to stint the Indian horde,
And that dear seed, the wealth of poppies blown
Floated to China through the Indian Sea. Lord
So and So with his integrity, settled alone
Among his pipes those satin faces. Ah, how the murmur goes
Among the banyan leaves, death is a dancing step,
A curtain drawn. How fit for governors
To sit in private gardens undisturbed at nap.
At dawn the enamelled gates turn rose
And copper colored and the daws
Hang down like spirits from the pipal trees,
The solitary bees zig-zag about the sap,
And Mr. Paundit sits upon his toes.