O turquoise morn!
Had earth a sorrow?
The happy larks, sing they
To-day or yesterday,
Or some enchanted morrow
And winds unborn?
To slopes of green,
Only the brook can tell—
In low, elusive tones
On smooth and fluting stones—
Where flow the rains that fell
By night, unseen.
Ghost-moon, what way
Wouldst thou be riding?
On day’s blue diamond
Thou art a flaw! Beyond,
I know, the stars are hiding,
Ere dusk betray.
I would not see;
For now the day is new,
And now a yellow flow’r
Suffices to the hour—
That, and a star of dew
It hoards for me.
THE HARLOT’S WAKENING
Ere dawn a spirit took my hand,
And once again, a joyous child,
I roamed an unforgotten land
Of orchards fresh and mild.
How fair the apple-blossoms were!
How cool the long-delaying breeze!
Where, half-asleep, I heard the stir
And hum of happy bees.
Clear in the meadow ran the brook,
From pool to pool, in liquid grace,
A glass o’er which I bent to look
At my enmirrored face—
A girlish face, with placid brow
All-innocent of care and hate,—
With eyes I cannot fathom now
And lips undesecrate.
My sister’s laugh, my brother’s call—
So would the morning larks rejoice!
But nearer, dearer far than all,
I heard my mother’s voice.