St. Dorothea

(lines for a picture )

(lines for a picture )

The Angel

I bear a basket lined with grass.
I am só light and fair
Men must start to see me pass
And the básket I bear,
Which in newly-drawn green litter
Carries treats of sweet for bitter.

See my lilies: lilies none,
None in Caesar's gardens blow—
Quinces, loók, whén not one
Is set in any orchard, no;
Not set because their buds not spring;
Spring not, 'cause world is wintering.

The Protonotary Theophilus

Bút they cáme fróm the south,
Where winter's out and all forgot.

The Angel

The bell-drops in my mallow's mouth
Hów are théy quenchèd not?—
These drops in starry shire they drew:
Whích are théy? stars or dew?

A Catechumen

That a quince we pore upon?
O no, it is the sizing moon.
Now her mallow-row is gone
In floats of evening sky.—So soon?
Sphered so fast, sweet soul?—We see
Nor fruit nor flowers nor Dorothy.


How to name it, blessed it,
Suiting its grace by him and her ?
Dorothea—or was your writ
Servèd by sweet seconder?—
Your parley was not done and there!
You fell into the partless air.

You waned into the world of light,
Yet made your market here as well:
My eyes hold yet the rinds and bright
Remainder of a miracle.
O this is bringing! Tears may swarm
While such a wonder's wet and warm!

Ah myrtle-bend never sit,
Sit no more these bookish brows!
I want, I want, if I were fit,
Whát the cóld mónth allows—
Nothing green or growing but
A pale and perished palmtree-cut.

Dip in blood the palmtree-pen
And wordy warrants are flawed through;
And more shall wear this wand and then
The warpèd world it will undo.—
Próconsul,—cáll him near—
I find another Christian here.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.