THE BLUE FLOWER
STILL, though the sun is setting,
She lingers unheeding the hour,
Her face held to its splendor,
Her heart in thrall of its power.
Her hair is golden burnished;
In her eye the heaven's hue;
Her charm of immortal beauty
Holds me from dawn till dew.
She has a soul of fire,
Pure as a star's white flame;
I gaze in silence, and wonder
The glory whence it came.
She is the spirit elusive
Sorrowing poets seek;
I stand rapt in her presence,
And listen to hear her speak.
All time in the forest olden,
She tells her wondrous chain;
My hope of suns eternal,
Priest of a mighty fane.
Through the pale light glowing golden,
She watches the day decline;
She sings from her ancient volume,
I interpret line on line.
Flower or star bright shining,
A bird, or a silver sheaf;
In her great book I discover
An enigma on every leaf.
Her song is of paradises
Where wheeling fires shine,
To mystic dreams beguiling
Like whispering wind in a pine.
She would that the spirits of mortals
Wander in amaranth meads;
Never a shadow trembles
On the soul-path where she leads,
Under the flashing stars
And the splendor of suns in prime,
In a land of new horizons,
In the unknown aftertime.