Classic Poem

Silken and mauve upon a golden stem,
Her parasol is like a passion-flower,—
Fallen forgotten from her hands that hour
My soul was startled by the sight of them.

Now she is gone, but her too sweet perfume,
Like poisonous wine from pallid violets pressed,
Lingers and leaves my jesting lips distressed—
As though her shadow fluttered through the gloom.

Oh, wan and fair is she, my pale strange flower!
A dear drear angel from a nether heaven,
Where Time is not at all, and endless even
Pauses and passes not with any hour;

From that sad shore, untrod by loveless feet,
An ominous wind has blown my asphodel,—
A star too fair, a blossom loved too well,
Is she whose touch most subtle is, and sweet.

Now on her folded parasol I stare,
(Made fragrant with the faint perfume of her,)
With dreaming eyes, and memories that stir
Like winds a-tremble in her wild dark hair;

So like her is this mauve and golden thing!
So like a hushéd lute my lips might sound,—
Achalice where her sea-deep soul lies drowned,—
So like a passion-flower, withering!