Richest roses bud or die
All about the splendid park;
Fountains glass a wily eye
Where the fawns browse in the dark.
Amber-belted through the night
Floats the alabaster moon,
Stooping o'er th' acacia white
Where my mandolin I tune.
By the twinkling mere I sing
Where lake lilies stretch pale eyes,
And a bulbul there doth fling
Music at the moon who flies.
With a broken syrinx there,
From enameled beds of buds,
Rises Pan in hoof and hair—
Moonlight his dim sculpture floods.
The pale jessamines have felt
The large passion of her gaze;
See! they part—their glories melt
Round her in a starry haze.
THE MIRROR.
An antique mirror this,
I like it not at all,
In this lonely room where the goblin gloom
Scowls from the arrased wall.
A mystic mirror framed
In ebon, wildly carved;
And the prisoned air in the crevice there
Moans like a man that's starved.
A truthful mirror where,
In the broad, chaste light of day,
From the window's arches, like fairy torches,
Red roses swing and sway.