 | The poems of Maria Lowell |  |
33
AVIGNON
The July day grew to a close, the fret of travel passed,
The cool and moonlit court-yard of the inn was gained at last,
Where oleanders greeted us between their stately ranks,
As pink and proud as if they grew on native Indian banks:
Seen from our chamber-window's ledge, they looked more strangely fair,
Like blossomed baskets, lightly poised upon the summer air.
The cool and moonlit court-yard of the inn was gained at last,
Where oleanders greeted us between their stately ranks,
As pink and proud as if they grew on native Indian banks:
Seen from our chamber-window's ledge, they looked more strangely fair,
Like blossomed baskets, lightly poised upon the summer air.
When came the sultry morning sun, I did not care to go
On dusty roads, but stayed to see my oleanders glow
Within their shadowy oasis;—the pilgrimage was long
To Petrarch's home; hot alien winds dried up his dewy song;—
Though Laura's cheek, with centuries sweet, still blushes at his call,
Her blush was not so bright as yours, my oleanders tall!
On dusty roads, but stayed to see my oleanders glow
Within their shadowy oasis;—the pilgrimage was long
To Petrarch's home; hot alien winds dried up his dewy song;—
Though Laura's cheek, with centuries sweet, still blushes at his call,
Her blush was not so bright as yours, my oleanders tall!
And fiercer grew the summer day, while in the court below,
The white-capped peasant-women kept moving to and fro,
With little laughs, and endless talks, whose murmur rose to me
Like the spring-chats of careless birds from blossomed apple-tree;
And, hearing it, I blessed the choice that kept me there that day,
With my stately oleanders keeping all the world at bay.
The white-capped peasant-women kept moving to and fro,
34
Like the spring-chats of careless birds from blossomed apple-tree;
And, hearing it, I blessed the choice that kept me there that day,
With my stately oleanders keeping all the world at bay.
The masonry of Nismes was lost, but still I could not sigh,
For Roman work looks sad when we have bidden Rome goodbye;
Prison and castle of the Pope stood close upon the hill,
But of castle and of prison my soul had had its fill;—
I knew that blood-stains, old and dark, clung to the inner wall,
And blessed the lovely, living bloom of oleanders tall.
For Roman work looks sad when we have bidden Rome goodbye;
Prison and castle of the Pope stood close upon the hill,
But of castle and of prison my soul had had its fill;—
I knew that blood-stains, old and dark, clung to the inner wall,
And blessed the lovely, living bloom of oleanders tall.
Thou pleasant, pleasant court-yard, I make to thee a crown
Of gems from Murray's casket, then shut the red lid down,
Contented if I still may keep, beneath a sky of blue,
The tender treasure of the day when first my spirit knew
Thy quiet, and thy shadow, and thy bird-like gossip, all
Inclosed within that sunset wreath of oleanders tall.
Of gems from Murray's casket, then shut the red lid down,
Contented if I still may keep, beneath a sky of blue,
The tender treasure of the day when first my spirit knew
Thy quiet, and thy shadow, and thy bird-like gossip, all
Inclosed within that sunset wreath of oleanders tall.
| The poems of Maria Lowell | |