LADY.
Halt! Flora, halt! This race
Has danced my ringlets all about my brows,
And brought my cheeks to bloom. Here will I rest
And weave a garland for thy dappled neck.
[Weaves flowers.
I look, sweet Flora, in thine innocent eyes,
And see in them a meaning and a glee
Fitting this universal summer joy:
Each leaf upon the trees doth shake with joy,
With joy the white clouds navigate the blue,
And, on his painted wings, the butterfly,
Most splendid masker in this carnival,
Floats through the air in joy! Better for man,
Were he and Nature more familiar friends!
His part is worst that touches this base world.
Although the ocean's inmost heart be pure,
Yet the salt fringe that daily licks the shore
Is gross with sand. On, my sweet Flora, on!
[Rises and approaches Walter.
Ha! what is this? A bright and wander'd youth,
Thick in the light of his own beauty, sleeps
Like young Apollo, in his golden curls!
At the oak-roots I've seen full many a flower,
But never one so fair. A lovely youth,
With dainty cheeks and ringlets like a girl,
And slumber-parted lips 'twere sweet to kiss!
Ye envious lids! I fain would see his eyes!
Jewels so richly cased as those of his
Must be a sight. So, here's a well-worn book,
From which he drinks such joy as doth a pale
And dim-eyed worker who escapes, in Spring,
The thousand-streeted and smoke-smothered town,
And treads awhile the breezy hills of health.
[Lady opens the book, a slip of paper falls out; she reads.
The fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays,
The churlish thistles, scented briers,
The wind-swept blue-bells on the sunny braes,
Down to the central fires,
Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea,
Filling all the abysses dim
Of lornest space, in whose deeps regally
Suns and their bright broods swim.
This mighty sea of Love with wondrous tides,
Is sternly just to sun and grain;
'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides,—
'Tis in my blood and brain.
All things have something more than barren use;
There is a scent upon the brier,
A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,
Cold morns are fringed with fire;
The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breathed flowers;
In music dies poor human speech,
And into beauty blow those hearts of ours,
When Love is born in each.
Life is transfigured in the soft and tender
Light of Love, as a volume dun
Of rolling smoke becomes a wreathèd splendour
In the declining sun.
Driven from cities by his restless moods,
In incense-glooms and secret nooks,
A miser o'er his gold—the lover broods
O'er vague words, earnest looks.
Oft is he startled on the sweetest lip;
Across his midnight sea of mind
A Thought comes streaming, like a blazing ship
Upon a mighty wind,