Classic Poem

The shadow of palms is still, but stiller the tall lilies' flame
(Emblems of Venus and Lilith), and blazes the sun like a boss,—
A boss on the Archangel's shield hung in the blue of the sky,—
For the Lady of Noon has arisen and scattered her poppies abroad.
The flower narcissus is bending, drooping, yet loath to die,
But the lilies are scarlet, defiant; they, stately, with one accord,
Face the fierce gaze of the sun god, knowing no pain or shame,
While fauns in the groves are moaning, mourning a nameless loss.

Where is there one spot of coolness, for all the wide earth seems dry,—
Dry in the pitiless beating of sun-rays for many a day?
The sleeper beside the fountain that has no waters now,
Sick of the scent of the poppies, sick of the sun's fierce glow,
Dreams of great torrents roaring, and, grateful, makes a vow;
There breathes a sound celestial across the lilies' row,
From out the court of the Virgin; it turns the sleeper's sigh
Into a song of hoping, as the toiler goes his way.

A serpent among the tall lilies raises his jeweled head
Spotted with scarlet color, ruby-like in the sun.
“Air, or I die in this stillness!” the Tetrarch cries in his tent;
“How silent the light is growing!” the poet languidly sings;
And in the court of the Virgin a maiden's form is bent,
Safe from the glare of the sunlight in the splendor of seraphs' wings
That bear the Word of the Godhead; and the Mystic Twain are wed,
As the voice of the Virgin murmurs:
“The will of our God be done!”
So soft,—and yet Nature wakens and the Hours from sleep arise;
So sweet,—yet the serpent quivers and dies in the scarlet sheen
Made by the flame-like lilies, no longer proud to the sun,
But sinking in shriveled death,—and a white cloud gently veils
The heat and the hate of Apollo, and the fountains once more run;
All Nature, the Mystic Mother with the gladness of new-birth hails;—
There stands the spotless lily where the crown of the red one lies,—
Love has struck the symbols of Lilith, and Venus is no more queen!