Fast I fled from the tulip-tree;
I fled from the tree and my slave with me,—
Love was the slave and I Poetry.
A SERENADE
Your love is like some wondrous scented rose.
The evening sees a purple pool of blood
Beneath the tree that Summer's glory chose
Crimsonly thick with passion'd joys to flood.
Your love is like the harvest of the sun
Moltenly golden, gloriously sublime.