 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
178
A BUNCH OF GRAPES.
PAINTED BY E. C. LEAVITT.
“Such as lurked behind the trees
In gardens of Hesperides.”
In gardens of Hesperides.”
On a sultry night in June,
In the trances of the moon,
Came a sudden thunder-squall
Crashing through the lindens tall;
Every grape-vine was blown down,
Every rose-tree lost its crown,
Jagged lightning, sheeted rain,
Dashed athwart the window pane.
In the trances of the moon,
Came a sudden thunder-squall
Crashing through the lindens tall;
Every grape-vine was blown down,
Every rose-tree lost its crown,
Jagged lightning, sheeted rain,
Dashed athwart the window pane.
Then a gust swept through the hall,
A sudden splendor rent the pall
Of darkness;—by its dazzling glare
I saw a stranger standing there,
With beaded raindrops in his hair.
Over eyes of dusky sheen
Vine-wreaths wove a leafy screen,
Such as crowns the marble brow
Of Bacchus in the busts we know;
Such, at least, I seemed to see,—
Perchance the lightning blinded me.
A sudden splendor rent the pall
Of darkness;—by its dazzling glare
I saw a stranger standing there,
With beaded raindrops in his hair.
Over eyes of dusky sheen
Vine-wreaths wove a leafy screen,
179
Of Bacchus in the busts we know;
Such, at least, I seemed to see,—
Perchance the lightning blinded me.
Then a hand of plastic power,
Cool and dripping with the shower,
Dropped within my hand a bunch
Of grapelets, fit for Juno's lunch;
Grapes by Orient sunbeams kissed
Into globes of amethyst;
Such as haughty Guinevere
Flung into the haunted mere;
Jewels for some queenly head,
In the purple born and bred;
Every dark globe veined with fire,
Like the brown cheek of a gypsy;
Lucent drops of love and ire,
Such as made the Mænads tipsy;
Every purple bead a gem
For Alraschid's diadem;
Each a miracle of art,
Fit to charm a poet's heart.
Cool and dripping with the shower,
Dropped within my hand a bunch
Of grapelets, fit for Juno's lunch;
Grapes by Orient sunbeams kissed
Into globes of amethyst;
Such as haughty Guinevere
Flung into the haunted mere;
Jewels for some queenly head,
In the purple born and bred;
Every dark globe veined with fire,
Like the brown cheek of a gypsy;
Lucent drops of love and ire,
Such as made the Mænads tipsy;
Every purple bead a gem
For Alraschid's diadem;
Each a miracle of art,
Fit to charm a poet's heart.
Dazed I stood, without a word,
And the silence was unstirred
Save by storm winds sweeping o'er us,
And the thunder's hollow chorus,
As he vanished from my sight,
In the wild and lonesome night.
And the silence was unstirred
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And the thunder's hollow chorus,
As he vanished from my sight,
In the wild and lonesome night.
Was it Bacchus? Who can tell?
If not he, 't was—E. C. L.
If not he, 't was—E. C. L.
1872.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |