But, strange to tell, when I had dreamily
These forms a while observed, in thought suspended,
I suddenly conceived myself to be
The corpse, in that fair marble tomb extended.
And at the head of this my grave there stood
A flower full fair, of strange configuration;
Its leaves were yellow-tinged and violet-hued,
The flower possess’d a wondrous fascination.
’Tis by the name of passion-flower well known,
On Golgotha, they say, ’twas first created
The day they crucified God’s only Son,
And the Redeemer’s body lacerated.
Bloodwitness doth this flower now bear, they say;
Each instrument of torture then invented
And used at His sad martyrdom that day,
Is in its calyx duly represented.
Yes! every passion-attribute adorns
The flower, each emblem of their cruel malice,—
For instance, scourge and rope and crown of thorns,
The hammer and the nails, the cross, the chalice.
Such was the flower which at my grave did stand,
And o’er my body bending with compassion,
As with a woman’s sorrow, kiss’d my hand,
My eyes, and forehead, in sad silent fashion.
But O, my dream’s strange magic! Wondrously
The passion-flower, the yellow-hued and rare one,
Changed to a woman’s likeness,—ah! and she,
She was my loved one, she was mine own fair one!
Thou wert the flower, yes, thou, my darling child!
At once I knew thee by thy kisses yearning;
No lips of flowers so tender are and mild,
No tears of flowers so fiery are and burning.
Although mine eyes were closed, my spirit gazed
With steadiness upon thy face entrancing;
Thou look’dst at me with raptured look amazed,
Strangely illumined in the moonlight glancing.
No words we spake, and yet my heart could see
The thoughts that in thy mind in silence hover’d;
A word when spoken has no modesty,
By silence is love’s modest blossoms cover’d.