 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
16
WATER-LILIES.
Up in the loftier leafage, dense and dim,
Of pines that slope to meet the lifeless pool,
And with still spicy coverts clothe its rim,
The silvery fitful breeze comes fluting cool;
But rarely does it steal to this grave spot,
Dank with foul mire and rank with woody rot.
Of pines that slope to meet the lifeless pool,
And with still spicy coverts clothe its rim,
The silvery fitful breeze comes fluting cool;
But rarely does it steal to this grave spot,
Dank with foul mire and rank with woody rot.
From half-sunk logs the sluggish turtles peer,
The flabby emerald bull-frogs leap and pause;
The erratic dragon-flies float there and here,
With rosy flashes in their wings of gauze;
And now a snake its sinuous way will thread,
With flickering tongue and small dark lifted head.
The flabby emerald bull-frogs leap and pause;
The erratic dragon-flies float there and here,
With rosy flashes in their wings of gauze;
And now a snake its sinuous way will thread,
With flickering tongue and small dark lifted head.
But out upon the central pool there blow
The lily-legions these dull waters hold,
With hollowed petals dropping curves of snow
Back from large fragrant stars of mossy gold,
All gleaming stainless on the unbroken sheen
Of heart-shaped leaves, in blended bronze and green.
The lily-legions these dull waters hold,
With hollowed petals dropping curves of snow
Back from large fragrant stars of mossy gold,
All gleaming stainless on the unbroken sheen
Of heart-shaped leaves, in blended bronze and green.
And as I watch them, in serene array,
And muse, while scenting their delicious balm,
Of how they burst from soilure and decay
In taintlessness of alabaster calm,
And blossoming from this grim half-stagnant lake,
What sweet pure incongruity they make,
And muse, while scenting their delicious balm,
Of how they burst from soilure and decay
In taintlessness of alabaster calm,
And blossoming from this grim half-stagnant lake,
What sweet pure incongruity they make,
I dream of gloomy souls within whose deeps
Crawls many a cold uncanny reptile thought;
Where black hate lurks and torpid envy sleeps,
And yet wherein some saving grace has wrought
Some heavenly touch that all their darkness dowers
With the chaste charm of these immaculate flowers!
Crawls many a cold uncanny reptile thought;
17
And yet wherein some saving grace has wrought
Some heavenly touch that all their darkness dowers
With the chaste charm of these immaculate flowers!
| Fantasy and Passion | |