 | The poems of Trumbull Stickney |  |
173
[VIII
Dear and rich as a dawn of summer]
Dear and rich as a dawn of summer
Over the sea and the irised foam,
Out of the past a bright newcomer
Into my arms thou wingest home.
Over the sea and the irised foam,
Out of the past a bright newcomer
Into my arms thou wingest home.
Here on the shore with wild lips parted
I lift my hands in quivering prayer.
Sunlight is thou, and thou sunhearted
Draw'st bright-eyed thro' the golden air.
I lift my hands in quivering prayer.
Sunlight is thou, and thou sunhearted
Draw'st bright-eyed thro' the golden air.
All the days that have tarried sterile
Burst into flower and lift their crown.
Walk, my sweet, from the past and peril
Into my heart and lay thee down.
Burst into flower and lift their crown.
Walk, my sweet, from the past and peril
Into my heart and lay thee down.
For nothing of life or the days I wander,
Myself, hereafter, before or now,
Or the hour I save or the year I squander
Is anything any more but thou.
Myself, hereafter, before or now,
Or the hour I save or the year I squander
Is anything any more but thou.
I've pressed thee a perfume of all my spirit
And jewelled the twilight of my soul:
O my darling, anoint thee! wear it!
The days blow by and the seasons roll.
And jewelled the twilight of my soul:
O my darling, anoint thee! wear it!
The days blow by and the seasons roll.
Come! 'bove us here in the russet heather
Hold thou away to the westering sun
This bunch of grapes, till they grow together
And glow and globe like a harvest moon!
Hold thou away to the westering sun
This bunch of grapes, till they grow together
And glow and globe like a harvest moon!
174
Then we'll ravish them for a greeting,
And look so near in each other's eyes
I'll feel thy blood thro' my bosom beating
And sigh for my all of life thy sighs.
And look so near in each other's eyes
I'll feel thy blood thro' my bosom beating
And sigh for my all of life thy sighs.
Nay, and here are my lips that kiss thee,
Here my cheek on thy bosom rests;
And filled with light, in my eyes grown misty,
The lilies in evening of thy breasts;
Here my cheek on thy bosom rests;
And filled with light, in my eyes grown misty,
The lilies in evening of thy breasts;
Here is the cup of my life's full measure:
Put thy lips to it, Heaven of mine!
Thine so long as it be thy pleasure,—
Were 't so no longer, yet always thine.
Put thy lips to it, Heaven of mine!
Thine so long as it be thy pleasure,—
Were 't so no longer, yet always thine.
| The poems of Trumbull Stickney | |