OF all the subtle fires of earth Which rise in form of spring-time flowers, Oh, say if aught of purer birth Is nursed by suns and showers Than this fair plant, whose stems are bowed In such lithe curves of maiden grace, Veiled in white blossoms like a cloud Of daintiest bridal lace? So rare, so soft, its blossoms seem Half woven of moonshine's misty bars, And tremulous as the tender gleam Of the far Southland stars. Perchance -- who knows? -- some virgin bright, Some loveliest of the Dryad race, Pours through these flowers the kindling light Of her Arcadian face. Nor would I marvel overmuch If from yon pines a wood-god came, And with a bridegroom's lips should touch Her conscious heart to flame; While she, revealed at that strange tryst, In all her mystic beauty glows, Lifting the cheek her Love had kissed, Paled like a bridal rose. |