Like a cactus flames the sun;
And the mighty weaver, Even,
Tenuous colored, there in heaven,
His rich weft's begun....
How I love you! from the time—
You remember, do you not?—
When, within your orchard-plot,
I was reading rhyme,
As I told you. And 'twas thus—
"By the blue Trinacrian sea,
Far in pastoral Sicily
With Theocritus"—
That I answered you who asked.
But the curious part was this:—
That the whole thing was amiss;
That the Greek but masked
Tales of old Boccaccio—
Tall Decameronian maids
Strolled among Italian glades,
Smiling, sweet and slow.
And when you approached,—my book
Dropped in wonder,—seemingly
To myself I said, "'Tis she!"
And arose to look
In Lauretta's eyes and—true!
Found them yours.—You shook your head,
Laughing at me, as you said,
"Did I frighten you?"
You had come for cherries; these
Dreamily I climbed for while
You still questioned with a smile,
And still tried to tease.
Ah, love, just two years have gone
Since then. I remember, you
Wore a dress of billowy blue
Muslin, or of lawn.
And that apron still I see,—
White, with cherry-juice red-stained,—
Which you held; wherein I rained
Ripeness from the tree.