Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

O it was not in the morning that my darling came to me,
In her young and shy adorning that was wonderful to see;
And it was not in the noonlight, or the madness of the moonlight
With its sad and silver flame—
But she came.
She looked earthly but not human
And so full of pretty ways,
Like a mingling of wild roses and the honeysuckle's poses
With invisible warm rays;
Speaking gently to the true man,
Of the vanished elder days.
Still the drowsy land lay sleeping in the kisses of the sun,
And a fairy form was peeping from a foxglove, as a nun
Out of her coy lattice curtain pries with timid brow uncertain,
To behold what she should shun;
When with wisping and a lisping,
As if all the leaves were crisping
And in love and laughter some,
She did come.

She was clothed in purple shadow and the gossamer and dew,
And the glory of the meadow in its fragrance fresh and new,
When the buttercup is yellow and the celandine its fellow,
And the daisy like a star
Shines afar.
She had something of the Dryad
With loose amber-coloured hair,
And in one hand was a thistle's ruddy blossom with its bristles,
Like a sceptre's solemn air;

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She had something of the Naiad,
And her mocking face was fair.
From an oak I thought she started, as I sat and lightly dreamed,
And the space before me parted when upon my youth she gleamed,
While her bosom heaved as panting and her eyes of all enchanting
With unriddled beauties beamed.
In a gliding and a sliding
Fashion as if from me hiding,
Moved the murmur of her feet
Bare and sweet.

O the rapture of the vision conquered me at once, and fell
In a touch of fond derision on my spirit with a spell;
All the life within me rallied as she looked at me and dallied
With my passion as a glove,
Into love.
And the scent of her soft vesture
Had the richness, that the soil
Grants the worker with his harrow when it pays its meat and marrow
To his care and kindly toil;
And round me, with many a gesture,
Did she weave a magic coil.
For she waxed more bright, and nearer drew those pure and perfumed charms,
Growing whiter, warmer, clearer, and without a hint of harms;
And the doubt that might have shielded me turned into trust and yielded,
Till I melted in her arms.
And her glances woke the dances
Of old dear and dead romances,
In the tumult of my heart—
Worlds apart.

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And what passed then no confession could disburden if I tried;
In the truth of that transgression, I was crowned and crucified.
For between us yet the thistle's head thrust out its armèd bristles,
As denying what she gave
Like the grave.
And to me those heather billows
Now no longer may be poor,
For they found me subtle traces and they showed departed graces
While they still unlock a door;
And hot breasts that are my pillows,
Tell the secrets of the Moor.
And we often mix, and higher grow our natures, and each morn
Sees my gladness lifted higher as to better solace born;
But in spite of many a meeting, after each last farewell greeting
She bequeaths me just a thorn.
And though flowers build me bowers,
As all treasures lend their dowers,
There abides of every sheaf
One sere leaf.