Blooms of the Berry Part 11

AN ANTIQUE.

Mildewed and gray the marble stairs Rise from their bal.u.s.traded urns To where a chiseled satyr glares From a luxuriant bed of ferns;

A pebbled walk that labyrinths 'Twixt parallels of verdant box To where, broad-based on grotesque plinths, 'Mid cushions of moss-padded rocks,

Rises a ruined pleasure-house, Of shattered column, broken dome, Where, reveling in thick carouse, The buoyant ivy makes its home.

And here from bank, and there from bed, Down the mad rillet's jubilant lymph, The lavish violet's odors shed In breathings of a fountain nymph.

And where, in lichened h.o.a.riness, The broken marble dial-plate Basks in the Summer's sultriness, Rich houri roses palpitate.

Voluptuous, languid with perfumes, As were the beauties that of old, In damask satins, jeweled plumes, With powdered gallants here that strolled.

When slender rapiers, proud with gems, Sneered at the sun their haughty hues, And Touchstone wit and apothegms Laughed down the long, cool avenues.

Two pleated bowers of woodbine pave, 'Neath all their heaviness of musk, Two fountains of pellucid wave, With sunlight-tessellated dusk.

Beholding these, I seem to feel An exodus of earthly sight, An influx of ecstatic weal Poured thro' my eyes in jets of light.

And so I see the fountains twain Of hate and love in Arden there; The time of regal Charlemagne, Of Roland and of Oliver.

Rinaldo of Montalban's towers Sleeps by the spring of hate; above Bows, spilling all his face with flowers, Angelica, who quaffed of love.

A GUINEVERE.

Sullen gold down all the sky, In the roses sultry musk; Nightingales hid in the dusk Yonder sob and sigh.

You are here; and I could weep, Weep for joy and suffering.

"Where is he?" He'd have me sing;-- There he sits asleep.

Think not of him! he is dead For the moment to us twain; He were dead but for this pain Drumming in my head.

"Am I happy?" Ask the fire When it bursts its bounds and thrills Some mad hours as it wills If those hours tire.

He had gold. As for the rest-- Well you know how they were set, Saying that I must forget, And 'twas for the best.

I forget! but let it go!-- Kiss me as you did of old.

There! your kisses are not cold!

Can you love me so,

Knowing what I am to him Sitting in his gouty chair On the breezy terrace where Amber fire-flies swim?

"Yes?"--Your cheek a tear-drop wets, But your kisses on my lip Fall as warm as bees that sip Sweets from violets.

See! the moon has risen white As this bursten lily here Rocking on the dusky mere Like a silent light.

Let us walk. We soon must part-- All too soon! but he may miss!

Give me but another kiss; It will heat my heart

And the bitter winter there.

So; we part, my Launcelot, My true knight! and am I not Your true Guinevere?

Oft they parted thus they tell In that mystical romance.

Were they placed, think you, perchance, For such love in h.e.l.l?

No! it can not, can not be!

Love is G.o.d and G.o.d is love, And they live and love above, Guinevere and he!

I must go now. See! there fell, Molten into purple light, One wild star. Kiss me good-night; And, once more, farewell!

CLOUDS.

All through the tepid Summer night The starless sky had poured a cool Monotony of pleasant rain In music beautiful.

And for an hour I'd sat to watch Clouds moving on majestic feet, Had heard down avenues of night Their hearts of thunder beat;

Saw ponderous limbs far-veined with gold Pulse fiery life o'er wood and plain, While scattered, fell from monstrous palms The largess of the rain;

Beholding at each lightning's flash The generous silver on the sod, In meek devotion bowed, I thanked These almoners of G.o.d.

NO MORE.

I.

The slanted storm tossed at their feet The frost-nipped Autumn leaves; The park's high pines were caked with sleet And ice-spears armed the eaves.

They strolled adown the pillared pines To part where wet and twisted vines About the gate-posts flapped and beat.

She watched him dimming in the rain Along the river's misty sh.o.r.e, And laughed with lips that sneered disdain "To meet no more!"

II.

'Mong heavy roses weighed with dew The chirping crickets hid; Down the honeysuckle avenue Creaked the green katydid.

The scattered stars smiled thro' the pines; Thro' stately windows draped with vines The rising moonlight's silver blew.

He stared at lips proud, white, and dead, A chiseled calm that wore; Despair moaned on the lips that said "To meet no more."