AND now she stands upon enthroning hills And tosses wreaths of roses o'er the world, With banner'd bloom about her head unfurl'd And at her feet the music loving rills While winter's lingering stirrup-cup with frothy clouds she fills. The blue sky hangs above her like a veil, And, dropping low, fringed with divinest lace, It adds a softened shyness to that face, Which, like a maid in love, now pink, now pale, Needs but one look from earth to blush and tell its love-blown tale. One slipper'd foot, flushed as the blossoming trees, Is thrust, half-naked, in the bloom and spray Of orchards, where throughout the dreamy day The sunshine glints the wings of weaving bees, And all her children, music mad, do touch their thousand keys. And baby vines, awakening, have wound And twined a bracelet bloom about her arms, While 'round her waist, 'neath nestling charms, A russet belt, with beaded berries bound— The sun-maid's belt, dropped at her bath, which lover earth had found. And Music dreams and pines and sighs Within her eyes. And Poesy is there, Prophetic-faced, with sun-red, Sappho hair. And Hope above, star-vestal'd vigil keeps And throws a ray of ripeness o'er that face where unborn Harvest sleeps. |