Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The spirit he loves, remains; And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, with his me teor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning-star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove. That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my windbuilt tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, [pearl; And the moon's with a girdle of The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridgelike shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nursling of the sky: I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. FROM "THE SENSITIVE-PLANT." A SENSITIVE-plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night. And the spring arose on the garden | Till, fold after fold, to the fainting fair, air And the Spirit of Love fell every- The soul of her beauty and love lay stream's recess, Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, Till they die of their own dear love- And starry river-buds glimmered by, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odor its neighbor shed, Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear, Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. But the sensitive-plant, which could give small fruit Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, Received more than all, it loved more than ever, The clearest echoes of the hills, And airs of evening; and it knew Where none wanted but it, could be- It talks according to the wit long to the giver,— For the sensitive-plant has no bright FROM "TO A LADY WITH A THE artist who this idol wrought, The artist wrought this loved guitar, Of its companions; and no more And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. And, if neglect had lavished on the ground Fragments of bread, she would collect the same, For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, A russet stole was o'er her shoulders What sin it were to waste the small |