 | The banshee and other poems |  |
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BACCHIC DAY.
A day of many days, a day supreme,
When, in mid May, young Summer like a child,
Sits in the lap of Spring! A nightingale,
Preluding low in the dim, dripping woods,
Makes morn acquainted with the heart of Night,
Of sad voluptuous Night, who loves to keep
Her state within these thickets of the Spring.
When, in mid May, young Summer like a child,
Sits in the lap of Spring! A nightingale,
Preluding low in the dim, dripping woods,
Makes morn acquainted with the heart of Night,
Of sad voluptuous Night, who loves to keep
Her state within these thickets of the Spring.
But now Day triumphs, and in dewy paths
Where rhododendrons trim their orient lamps
Of pale exotic fire, to homage him,
Glows like the Indian Bacchus. Every brake,
Stirred by the fluttering of some weak-winged thrush
Yet young in the world, is all ablaze with him;
In odorous flame his golden presence walks,
Glad, through the bushes burning unconsumed,
And through the antlered bracken, that will soon
Shadow the withering bluebells—fainting now
At the first kiss of Summer.
Where rhododendrons trim their orient lamps
Of pale exotic fire, to homage him,
Glows like the Indian Bacchus. Every brake,
Stirred by the fluttering of some weak-winged thrush
Yet young in the world, is all ablaze with him;
In odorous flame his golden presence walks,
Glad, through the bushes burning unconsumed,
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Shadow the withering bluebells—fainting now
At the first kiss of Summer.
Day the god,
Come conquering from the east, invades my spirit,
Which dwelt abandoned, in a sullen gloom,
The mate of desolation, stretched vain arms
After a traitor hope; and now leaps up
To clasp a sudden and imperious joy.
Come conquering from the east, invades my spirit,
Which dwelt abandoned, in a sullen gloom,
The mate of desolation, stretched vain arms
After a traitor hope; and now leaps up
To clasp a sudden and imperious joy.
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