upon the lifting swellThat swayed their long stems lazily, and lapped
Their floating pads and stirred among the leaves.
And when the sun from western gates of day
Poured colored flames, they, kissed to ruddy shame,
So blushed through snowy petals, that they glowed
Like roses morning-blown in dewy bowers,
When garden-walks lie dark with early shade.
That so their perfumed chalices were brimmed
With liquid glory till they overflowed
And spilled rich lights and purple shadows out,
That splashed the pool with gold, and stained its waves
In tints of violet and ruby blooms.
But when the flashing gem that lit the day
Dropped in its far blue casket of the hills,
The rainbow paintings faded from the mere,
The wine-dark shades grew black, the gilding dimmed,
While, paling slow through tender amber hues,
The crimsoned lilies blanched to coldest white,
And wanly shivered in the evening breeze.
When twilight closed – when earliest dew-drops fell
All frosty-chill deep down their golden hearts,
They shrank at that still touch, as maidens shrink,
When love's first footstep frights with sweet alarms
The untrod wildness of their virgin breasts;
Then shut their ivory cups, and dipping low
Their folded beauties in the gloomy wave,
They nodded drowsily and heaved in sleep.
But sweeter far than summer dreams at dawn,
Their mingled breaths from out the darkness stole,
Across the silent lake, the winding shores,
The shadowy hills that rose in lawny slopes,
The marsh among whose reeds the wild fowl screamed,
And dusky woodlands where the night came down.
BETWEEN THE FLOWERS
An open door and door-steps wide,
With pillared vines on either side,
And terraced flowers, stair over stair,
Standing in pots of earthenware
Where stiff processions filed around —
Black on the smooth, sienna ground.
Tubers and bulbs now blossomed there
Which, in the moisty hot-house air,
Lay winter long in patient rows,
Glassed snugly in from Christmas snows:
Tuberoses, with white, waxy gems
In bunches on their reed-like stems;
Their fragrance forced by art too soon
To mingle with the sweets of June.
(So breathes the thin blue smoke, that steals
From ashes of the gilt pastilles,
Burnt slowly, as the brazier swings,
In dim saloons of eastern kings.)
I saw the calla's arching cup
With yellow spadix standing up,
Its liquid scents to stir and mix —
The goldenest of toddy-sticks;
Roses and purple fuchsia drops;
Camellias, which the gardener crops
To make the sickening wreaths that lie
On coffins when our loved ones die.
These all and many more were there;
Monsters and grandifloras rare,
With tropical broad leaves, grown rank,
Drinking the waters of the tank
Wherein the lotus-lilies bathe;
All curious forms of spur and spathe,
Pitcher and sac and cactus-thorn,
There in the fresh New England morn.
But where the sun came colored through
Translucent petals wet with dew,
The interspace was carpeted
With oriel lights and nodes of red,
Orange and blue and violet,
That wove strange figures, as they met,
Of airier tissue, brighter blooms
Than tumble from the Persian looms.
So at the pontiff's feasts, they tell,
From the board's edge the goblet fell,
Spilled from its throat the purple tide
And stained the pavement far and wide.
Such steps wise Sheba trod upon
Up to the throne of Solomon;
So bright the angel-crowded steep
Which Israel's vision scaled in sleep.
What one is she whose feet shall dare
Tread that illuminated stair?
Like Sheba, queen; like angels, fair?
Oh listen! In the morning air
The blossoms all are hanging still —
The queen is standing on the sill.
No Sheba she; her virgin zone
Proclaims her royalty alone:
(Such royalty the lions own.)
Yet all too cheap the patterned stone
That paves kings' palaces, to feel
The pressure of her gaiter's heel.
The girlish grace that lit her face
Made sunshine in a dusky place —
The old silk hood, demure and quaint,
Wherein she seemed an altar-saint
Fresh-tinted, though in setting old
Of dingy carving and tarnished gold;
Her eyes, the candles in that shrine,
Making Madonna's face to shine.
Lingering I passed, but evermore
Abide with me the open door,
The doorsteps wide, the flowers that stand
In brilliant ranks on either hand,
The two white pillars and the vine
Of bitter-sweet and lush woodbine,
And – from my weary paths as far
As Sheba or the angels are —
Between, upon the wooden sill,
Thou, Queen of Hearts, art standing still.
AS YOU LIKE IT
Here while I read the light forsakes the pane;
Metempsychosis of the twilight gray —
Into green aisles of Epping or Ardenne
The level lines of print stretch far away.
The book-leaves whisper like the forest-leaves;
A smell of ancient woods, a breeze of morn,
A breath
