 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
184
THE NIGHT BLOOMING CEREUS.
A NOCTURNE, FOR M. A.
A July evening, damp and cold;
Over the dim horizon wall
Low clouds their heavy draperies rolled,
Till darkness gathered like a pall
Around me, and the shadowy room
Grew slumberous with its weight of gloom.
Over the dim horizon wall
Low clouds their heavy draperies rolled,
Till darkness gathered like a pall
Around me, and the shadowy room
Grew slumberous with its weight of gloom.
Heard I a step?—or had I dreamed?
Strange perfume through the chamber streamed,
A phantom flower was in my hand
From some far off enchanted land.
Wondering, I placed it where a low
Lamp gleamed, like moonlight over snow.
The winds were hushed, the night was still,
The very silence seemed to thrill
With that strange effluence.
Filled with awe,
In rapt and wondering mood I saw
The mystic lily, pure and cold,
Whose beauty never knew the sun,
Its vestal garniture unfold,
Till slowly, slowly, one by one,
Its lucent petals fall apart,
Unveiling all its virgin heart!
From what far heights of glory came
That coronal of silver flame?
From what deep fount of wonder welled
The holy gold its chalice held?
Strange perfume through the chamber streamed,
A phantom flower was in my hand
From some far off enchanted land.
Wondering, I placed it where a low
Lamp gleamed, like moonlight over snow.
The winds were hushed, the night was still,
The very silence seemed to thrill
With that strange effluence.
185
In rapt and wondering mood I saw
The mystic lily, pure and cold,
Whose beauty never knew the sun,
Its vestal garniture unfold,
Till slowly, slowly, one by one,
Its lucent petals fall apart,
Unveiling all its virgin heart!
From what far heights of glory came
That coronal of silver flame?
From what deep fount of wonder welled
The holy gold its chalice held?
Strange marvel of the summer night,
Veiled in an aureole of light,
To vanish ere the morning hour!
Gazing upon thy magic flower,
With such superfluous beauty fraught,—
Owning the presence of a power
Beyond the reaches of our thought,—
Almost the gazer fears to guess
The mystery of thy loveliness.
Veiled in an aureole of light,
To vanish ere the morning hour!
Gazing upon thy magic flower,
With such superfluous beauty fraught,—
Owning the presence of a power
Beyond the reaches of our thought,—
Almost the gazer fears to guess
The mystery of thy loveliness.
1877.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |