 | The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman |  |
HELIOTROPE
I walk in the morning twilight,
Along a garden slope,
To the shield of moss encircling
My beautiful Heliotrope.
Along a garden slope,
To the shield of moss encircling
My beautiful Heliotrope.
O sweetest of all the flowerets
That bloom where angels tread!
But never such marvellous odor
From heliotrope was shed,
That bloom where angels tread!
But never such marvellous odor
From heliotrope was shed,
As the passionate exhalation,
The dew of celestial wine,
That floats in tremulous languor
Around this darling of mine.
The dew of celestial wine,
399
Around this darling of mine.
For, only yester-even,
I saw the dearest scene!
I heard the delicate footfall,
The step of my love, my queen.
I saw the dearest scene!
I heard the delicate footfall,
The step of my love, my queen.
Along the walk she glided:
I made no sound nor sign,
But ever, at the turning
Of her star-white neck divine,
I made no sound nor sign,
But ever, at the turning
Of her star-white neck divine,
I shrunk in the shade of the cypress,
And crouched in the swooning grass,
Like some Arcadian shepherd
To see an Oread pass.
And crouched in the swooning grass,
Like some Arcadian shepherd
To see an Oread pass.
But when she came to the border
At the end of the garden-slope,
She bent, like a rose-tree, over
That beautiful Heliotrope.
At the end of the garden-slope,
She bent, like a rose-tree, over
That beautiful Heliotrope.
The cloud of its subtile fragrance
Entwined her in its wreath,
And all the while commingled
With the incense of her breath.
Entwined her in its wreath,
And all the while commingled
With the incense of her breath.
And so she glistened onward,
Far down the long parterre,
Beside the statue of Hesper,
And a hundred times more fair.
Far down the long parterre,
Beside the statue of Hesper,
And a hundred times more fair.
But ah! her breath had added
The perfume that I find
In this, the sweetest of flowerets,
And the paragon of its kind.
The perfume that I find
In this, the sweetest of flowerets,
And the paragon of its kind.
400
I drink deep draughts of its nectar;
I faint with love and hope!
Oh, what did she whisper to you,
My beautiful Heliotrope?
I faint with love and hope!
Oh, what did she whisper to you,
My beautiful Heliotrope?
| The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman | |