Classic Poem

It is the time of the lilies;
Look down in the garden there,
At the white bride-blossoms swinging
Bloom-censers into the air;
At the white bride-blossoms flinging
Their odors into the air.

The sky is a sea of sapphire,
Dappled with purple and gold;
White heats from the heart of August
Over the land are rolled,—
White heats from the heart of August
Into the lilies fold.

Into the death-white lilies,
Down in the garden there,
The hundred lilies ringing
Bloom-bells in the ardent air,—
The hundred lilies ringing
A requiem of despair.

The days are a swoon of silence,
A drowsy dream of death;
But at eve a wind comes blowing
A sweet southwestern breath;
At eve a wind comes blowing
Up from a river of Death

At the foot of the garden there
It sleeps all day in the sun;
A river of amethyst veiled with mist,
Till the swoon of the day is done;
A river of amethyst veiled with mist,
Which the white bride-lilies shun.

From what far mystical islands,
Over what strange sea-floors,
Does the southwest-wind come blowing
Into these lonely shores?
Does the southwest-wind come blowing
An echo of ghostly oars?

There's something astir on the grass,
Just under the lilies there,
A glitter of white in the dim midnight,
And a sudden chill in the air;
A glitter of white in the August night,
And a throbbing thrill in the air.

The lilies shiver and sigh,
The lilies murmur and moan,
With a tender, tremulous thrill,
In their wild Æolian tone;
A tender, tremulous thrill,
As she stands there all alone.

Did she step from the lilies down,
A splendid spirit of bloom,
With a shimmer of amber tresses flung
Like a meteor into the gloom?
A shimmer of amber tresses flung
Into the midnight gloom?

Did she step from the lilies down,
This shape of a womanly grace,
With an awful beauty shining clear
Out of her phantom face?
An awful beauty shining clear
From the light of her phantom face?

The murk of the midnight gloom
With a pallid radiance glows,
As she glides like a meteor down to the strand
At the foot of the garden close;
As she glides like a meteor down to the strand
Where the river of amethyst flows.

A mystical murmur breaks
From the waves that break on the shore,
And a phantom boat drops dreamily down
To the dip of a ghostly oar;
A phantom boat drops dreamily down,
And never comes back to shore.

She sits at the slender stern,
The queen of a ghostly realm,
While a pennon of amber flutters and floats
Away from the shadowy helm;
A pennon of amber tresses floats
Away from the dusky helm.

What is it she seeks in the night?
What ghostly tryst doth she keep
At the foot of the garden there,
While the earth lies shrouded in sleep,—
At the foot of the garden there
What terrible tryst doth she keep?

O, ask of the pale sighing lilies,
What secret of solemn despair
Lies hid in their white bridal bosoms,
And lurks in the chill haunted air,—
Lying hid in their beautiful bosoms,
What secret of solemn despair!