University of Virginia Library

How shall I array my love?
How should I arrange my fair?
Leave her standing white and silent
In the richness of her hair?
Motion silent, beauty bare
In the glory of her hair?
Or, for place and drapery,
Ravage land, and sack the sea?

Or from darkest summer sky,
When the white belts, riding high,
Cut the clear like ribs of pearl,
On the eastern upland's curl,
In the time of dusk and dew
Tear away a breadth of blue?
Touched from twilight's rosy bars,
With each twinkling tuft of stars,
And, shaking out the glints of gold,
Catch her softly from the cold?—
Catch, and lift her to the cloud,
Where to crown her, passing proud,
Gliding, glistening woods of June,
Reach the rain-ring from the moon?

Or to fold her warmer-wise—
Let me try, in garb and guise
Gathered from this mortal globe;
Roll her beauty in a robe
Of the Persian lilach stain,
Purple, dim with filigrane;
Belted-in with rarer red
Than India's leaf ere figured,
Put a crown upon her head!
Then to lead her, high and cold
Where, from a step of silver rolled
A crimson floweth on the floor;
Like a river riding o'er
Pearl, and priceless marbles bright.
Onyx, myrrhine, marcasite,
And jasper green!—nor these alone,
But the famed Phengites stone,—
And leading upward to the throne.
Prop and pillar, roof and rise,
All ashake with drops and dyes,
And the diamond's precious eyes;
And she, as if a sudden storm
Had fallen upon her face and form;
Diamonds like raindrops rare,
Pearls like hailstones in her hair;
In the lamplight's ruddy stream,
Jewels crossed with jewels gleam
On jewels, jewel-circled there;
While, round her wrists and ankles bare,
Gems of jewels glimpse and gaze,—
Hyacinth, rose-stone, idocrase.

Or she stealeth, soft arrayed
Like a white Hæmonian maid
Winding under cypress shade
Cedar shade, and paths of green,
With porch and pillar, white between;
Amaranth eyes do mine behold,
Hair like the pale marigold:
Dreamily she seems to me
Hero, or Herodice!
With a sidelong motion sweet,
Thoro' flowers she draws her feet;
This way now the ripples come,—
Shower myrtles, myrrh, and gum,
With heliochryse and amomum.

Ah! not so, New England's flower!
Separate must her beauty be
From stars of old mythology,—
Priestesses, or Crysophoræ,
Nor fairy garb, nor kingly dower,
May fit her in her radiant hour;
Free and bold her steps must flow,
All men see her come and go;
At her feet the planet lies,
Day and night are in her eyes,
Over her the star-flag strewn;
Lo! she standeth there alone,
Pride, in her dark glances, king!
Love, her cheek rose-colouring;
In a garden all her own,
Lo! she standeth, crowned on
With rare roses, round her drawn
Texture like the webs of dawn
On the rose-beds lingering.
While my heart to her I bring;
Heart and garden all her own—
What, in truth, cares such a one,
Though my arm could round her throw
Gleam of gods, or crowns bestow?
Or though the old gods could confer
All godlike gifts and grace on her?
The young Medusa's locks divine,
Pelops' shoulder eburnine,
Lips that drew the Ismenean bees,
Tears of the Heliades,
Dropped into shimmering shells that be
About the indraught of the sea.
The river-riches of the sphere,
All that the dark sea-bottoms bear,
The wide earth's green convexity,
The inexhaustible blue sky,
Hold not a prize, so proud, so high
That it could grace her, gay or grand,
By garden-gale and rose-breath fanned
Or as to-night I saw her stand,
Lovely in the meadow-land
With a clover in her hand.