I kissed her heavy, folded hair. I kissed her heavy lids full oft;
Beneath the shining of the stars her eyes shone soft.
“Love, Love!” I said, “the day was long”—“Oh, long indeed,” she sighing said.
“I grow so jealous of the sun, since I am dead.”
(How sweet the air is in the night, how sweet, sweet, sweet the flowers seem—
But oh, the emptiness of dawn that breaks the dream!)
The Crocus Bed
YELLOW as the noonday sun,
Purple as a day that’s done,
White as mist that lingers pale
On the edge of morning’s veil,
Delicate as love’s first kiss—
Crocuses are just like this.
Ere the robin paints his breast,
Ere the daffodil is drest,
Ere the iris’ lovely head
Waves above her perfumed bed
Comes the crocus—and the Spring
Follows after, wing on wing!
Sweet perfection, holding up
Magic dew in topaz cup,
Alabaster, amethyst—
Curling lips which Earth has kissed,
Folded hearts where secrets hide,
Secrets old when Eve was bride!
Beauty’s soul was born with wings,
Flight inspires all lovely things—
Would you gather rainbow fire?
See the rose of dawn’s desire
Turn to ash beneath the moon?—
Crocuses must leave us soon.
The Vision
“O SISTER, sister, from the casement leaning,
What sees thy trancéd eye, what is the meaning
Of the strange rapture that thy features know?”
“I see,” she said, “the sunset’s crimson glow.”