To E.O.S.
When issuing from the realms of “Shadow Land”
I see thee mid the Orient's kindling bloom,
With mystic lilies gleaming in thy hand,
Gathered by dream-light in the dusky gloom
Of bowers enchanted—I behold again
The fabled Goddess of the Morning, veiled
In fleccy clouds. Thy cheek, so softly paled
With memories of the Night's mysterious reign,
And something of the star-light, burning still
In thy deep, dreamy eyes, do but fulfill
The vision more divinely to my thought:
While all the cheerful hopes enkindling round thee—
Warm hopes, wherewith thy prescient soul hath crowned thee—
Are with the breath of morning fragrance fraught.
I see thee mid the Orient's kindling bloom,
With mystic lilies gleaming in thy hand,
Gathered by dream-light in the dusky gloom
Of bowers enchanted—I behold again
The fabled Goddess of the Morning, veiled
In fleccy clouds. Thy cheek, so softly paled
With memories of the Night's mysterious reign,
And something of the star-light, burning still
In thy deep, dreamy eyes, do but fulfill
The vision more divinely to my thought:
While all the cheerful hopes enkindling round thee—
Warm hopes, wherewith thy prescient soul hath crowned thee—
Are with the breath of morning fragrance fraught.
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