Impromptu.
(On being asked for some verses.)
I love the silver dawn of night
That melts the dark away;
The ecstacy of pallid light
That bathes the ended day;
When leaf by leaf the slumbrous trees
Begin to talk anew;
And that sweet almoner, the breeze,
Fills every cup with dew;
When on the fevered brow of toil
Eve lays a soothing palm,
And whispers softly to the soul:
“This hour was made for calm.”
1876.
Notre Dame des Fleurs.
To F. S. W.
Rosy, and fair, and fragrant,
Your vassals, the flowers, come,
Bearing a welcome to us
From the heart of your sunlit home;
Delicate garlands, wreathing
With brightness these dreary hours;
Red lips and white lips, breathing
Of you, our Lady of Flowers!
Violets, blue as your eyes are
And roses, as soft as your cheek,—
Daphne, sweet as your words are,—
Primroses pallid and meek;
Feathery, waving fern-plumes,
And blossoms from Summer bowers,
Each one bearing a message
From you, our Lady of Flowers!
Giver of brightness and beauty,
And Queen of this fragrant throng,
How shall we thank you or praise you
But feebly in this poor song?
We, whom you crown with blossoms,
Whom richly your kindness dowers,
We must be silent and love you,—
Love you, our Lady of Flowers!
November 25, 1878.
