IN beauty fairer far
Than the divinest dream of him who drew
The stately Eos guiding up the blue
Apollo's golden car —
From the dusk realm of Night
Comes forth the radiant Morning, brushing back
The clouds, like blossoms, from her rosy track
With diamond dews bedight.
The priestly mocking-bird
Wakens the grosbeak with his early hymn;
And down the slopes and through the woodlands dim
Sweet, holy sounds are heard.
Her gold-enamelled bells
The tall campanula rings. Midst daisies white
The lithe, slim phalaris flaunts his pennons bright
O'er all the grassy swells.
Benzoin's breath divine
Spices the air; the jasmine censers swing;
Among the ferns beside the darkling spring
The mailed nasturtions shine.
The brown bees come and go;
His cheerful tune the lonely cricket sings;
While the quick dragon-fly, on lightning wings,
Darts flashing to and fro.
Pomegranates golden-brown
Drop delicate nectar through each rifted rind,
And ghostly witch's-feather on the wind
Comes slowly riding down.
The gray cicada sings
Drowsily midst th' acacia's feathery leaves;
Around her web the caterpillar weaves
The last white silken rings.
September silently
His pleasant work fulfils with busy hands;
While, cheering him, floats o'er the shining sands
The murmur of the sea.
Deep in the shady dell
The cowherd, whistling at his own rude will,
Lists, with bared head, as from the distant hill
Rings out Saint Michael's bell —
Calling, with warning lips,
Matron and maid, albeit the south-winds blow,
To climb the height and pray for them that go
Down to the sea in ships.
The fishers in the boats,
Mending their nets with murmurous song and noise,
Stop sudden, as Dolores' silver voice
From the gray chapel floats:
They think how, o'er the bay,
The sailor bridegroom, from her white arms torn,
Sailed in the haze and gold of Michaelmas morn
One year ago to-day;
Then, rocking with the tide,
They reckon up the news of yesterday,
And count what time to-day, within the bay,
The home-bound ship may ride.
Dreaming, the long night hours,
Of white sails coming o'er the tossing deep,
At dawn Dolores from her strange, glad sleep,
Arose to gather flowers:
Cups honeyed to the brim,
And fruits, and brilliant grasses, and the stems
Of myrtles, with their waxen diadems
To offer unto him.
Beside the chapel porch,
The Gloria ended, lingering now she turns
To look, as on the brightening spire-cross burns
The morning's golden torch;
Then sees, with sober glee,
The swift, prophetic sea-gulls flying south,
Far out beyond the landlocked harbour's mouth,
Into the open sea.
" Steady, thou freshening breeze, "
Her dark eyes say, as o'er the sparkling main
She gazes — " steady, till thou bring again
The ship from distant seas;
" So, ere his golden wine
The setting sun adown the valley pour,
Dear eyes may watch with me, beside the door,
The autumn day decline. "
O breeze, O sea-birds white!
Ye may not bring her, from that rocky coast,
The stranded ship, nor wrest the tempest-tost
From the black billow's might!
But when she wearily
Shall pray for comfort, of that country tell
Where all the lost are crowned with asphodel,
And there is no more sea.
Than the divinest dream of him who drew
The stately Eos guiding up the blue
Apollo's golden car —
From the dusk realm of Night
Comes forth the radiant Morning, brushing back
The clouds, like blossoms, from her rosy track
With diamond dews bedight.
The priestly mocking-bird
Wakens the grosbeak with his early hymn;
And down the slopes and through the woodlands dim
Sweet, holy sounds are heard.
Her gold-enamelled bells
The tall campanula rings. Midst daisies white
The lithe, slim phalaris flaunts his pennons bright
O'er all the grassy swells.
Benzoin's breath divine
Spices the air; the jasmine censers swing;
Among the ferns beside the darkling spring
The mailed nasturtions shine.
The brown bees come and go;
His cheerful tune the lonely cricket sings;
While the quick dragon-fly, on lightning wings,
Darts flashing to and fro.
Pomegranates golden-brown
Drop delicate nectar through each rifted rind,
And ghostly witch's-feather on the wind
Comes slowly riding down.
The gray cicada sings
Drowsily midst th' acacia's feathery leaves;
Around her web the caterpillar weaves
The last white silken rings.
September silently
His pleasant work fulfils with busy hands;
While, cheering him, floats o'er the shining sands
The murmur of the sea.
Deep in the shady dell
The cowherd, whistling at his own rude will,
Lists, with bared head, as from the distant hill
Rings out Saint Michael's bell —
Calling, with warning lips,
Matron and maid, albeit the south-winds blow,
To climb the height and pray for them that go
Down to the sea in ships.
The fishers in the boats,
Mending their nets with murmurous song and noise,
Stop sudden, as Dolores' silver voice
From the gray chapel floats:
They think how, o'er the bay,
The sailor bridegroom, from her white arms torn,
Sailed in the haze and gold of Michaelmas morn
One year ago to-day;
Then, rocking with the tide,
They reckon up the news of yesterday,
And count what time to-day, within the bay,
The home-bound ship may ride.
Dreaming, the long night hours,
Of white sails coming o'er the tossing deep,
At dawn Dolores from her strange, glad sleep,
Arose to gather flowers:
Cups honeyed to the brim,
And fruits, and brilliant grasses, and the stems
Of myrtles, with their waxen diadems
To offer unto him.
Beside the chapel porch,
The Gloria ended, lingering now she turns
To look, as on the brightening spire-cross burns
The morning's golden torch;
Then sees, with sober glee,
The swift, prophetic sea-gulls flying south,
Far out beyond the landlocked harbour's mouth,
Into the open sea.
" Steady, thou freshening breeze, "
Her dark eyes say, as o'er the sparkling main
She gazes — " steady, till thou bring again
The ship from distant seas;
" So, ere his golden wine
The setting sun adown the valley pour,
Dear eyes may watch with me, beside the door,
The autumn day decline. "
O breeze, O sea-birds white!
Ye may not bring her, from that rocky coast,
The stranded ship, nor wrest the tempest-tost
From the black billow's might!
But when she wearily
Shall pray for comfort, of that country tell
Where all the lost are crowned with asphodel,
And there is no more sea.