The sheeny garb from thy tall shoulders hung,
Making thy spiry form like vase antique
For resinous balms of frankincense and myrrh,
And round the bearded skirts the drowsy purr
Of life, and murmurings of thy sea-harp strung,—
Touch thee to kinship fine with Celt and Greek.
[THE GHOST FLOWER.]
Like Israel's seer I come from out the earth
Confronting with the question air and sky,
Why dost thou bring me up? White ghost am I
Of that which was God's beauty at its birth.
In eld the sun kissed me to ruby red,
I held my chalice up to heaven's full view,
The wistful stars dropt down their golden dew,
And skyey balms exhaled about my bed.
Alas, I loved the darkness, not the light!
The deadly shadows, not the bending blue,
Spoke to my trancëd heart, made false seem true,
And drowned my spirit in the deeps of night.
O Painter of the flowers, O God most sweet,
Dost say my spirit for the light is meet?
[ANNAPOLIS BASIN.]
The full-fed crystal streams from east and west
And south, thy rich-wrought cup filled to the brim,
Till where the northern star soft gilds the rim,
Thy waters, called, o'erbroke at love's behest.
O to have seen thy cataract's white breast,
Rifted with ruth through the lone centuries dim,
For toiling Fundy's wooing tide—for him
To blend thy sylvan calm with world unrest!
Far floods thy bridal brought, fair lake, brave sea!
And late, the wingëd ships—Champlain, De Monts,
With Poutrincourt, and sequent games of war.
Thy marge, now crowned with peaceful husbandry,
And set with England's rose where bloomed fleur d'or,
Still croons all day love's wedded tidal song.