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NAIAD of flowers, now supine, yet not sleeping, With petals 'neath half-parted sepals peeping, Prone on the lake, and shy, till day's declining, Hoarding pure dyes of pink through all its shining - Not as the sirens of cerulean guise That vaunt the sapphire of meridian skies - That lure at noon - at night their jewels hide - You spread vermilion cheer at eventide; Claiming the charm of sunset's lingering glow - Lovingly hold heaven's carmine beams below; As if your kin of far-off Pharaoh's days Had charged you 'gainst a term of banished rays When space from last-lit rim to long-reft dome, Should lapse to gloom of mural monochrome; You gleam through soundless depths of wave and night In symphonies of vibrant, florid light. Whether of floral or fair human kind, Nymph of sun-tinted form or love-hued mind, Self-merged in storing joys for darkened hours While halcyon sunshine woos the floating flowers; For bloom like yours men's Fancy fragrant turns - Grateful their frankincense of tribute burns! |
| TO THE GOLDEN ROD | CONTENTS | THE HEROES OF MONTMARTRE |
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