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97

LXXXIX. THROUGH TROPIC WOODS

I am as one who, threading tropic woods
The first time, wondered at the marvels fair
That met his yearning vision everywhere
Through the green splendid tangled solitudes,—
Who worshipped in that dense and torrid air
Some wonderful white blossom by the way,
Ready to kiss with tender lips each spray
That laughed beneath the blue heavens' burning glare.
Just as he worshipped wildly,—yet at last,
When the sweet days of distant awe were past,
Plucked tenderly the blossom for his own,—
So hold I now my snow-white bud too near
For the old tremulous glance, the old sweet fear,
Since worship into living love has grown.