Each eve I lie a-musing on Madeira's hills, Erewhile below the sea-tales full of mystery: The Life that was my Love has flown o'er waves and rills, Into the jeweled shrine of God's Eternity. By night and day she sleeps here in a churchyard, features cold Beneath the sable robes of Death,—immortal Beauty Majestic sweet,—all gleams of earthly glories rolled In long-lost loves, to sacred greater purity. From purple domes and stately towers, Funchal's sunlight Gilds her grave in saffron garb; flowers, halfhidden In the mosses green, fleck our lore of love laden With the rarest dew of Paradise. Disguised at night In mazes, opal, iridescent and benign, These petals peer—a nest of glow-worms—o'er her mound, Whispering the saddest requiem of human kind. Suddenly towards moon-rise, deep slumbers all around, In grieving winds and ebbing tides suffused with tears, Came the fairest angel, poised in flowery Wings and draperies 'round her drooping low; background An architrave with higher temple front, subtly Wrought in flaunted lace and silver tinted vine. The thinnest veil obscured her face: nearer she drew And gazed; in radiance stooped as mortal maid; entwined My neck, caressed my cheek, then kissed my lips—a chaste Sweet kiss, soft and warm and thrilled with life. Her face She turned, then slipped away as adown the brighter circle of the moon A chariot appeared: she rose from sylvan hill. Too soon Are nimble joys of youth by newer sorrows rent, As dark processions dissolve a dream from Heaven, sent To awake o'er the myrtle grave Time alone has lent. |