of honeyed breath upon my face!
Teller of balmy tales! Weaver
Sweet conjurer of palpitating
And peopled shadows trooping into place
the drooped lid and the drowsy eye!
Moth-winged seducer, dusky-soft
Of bubble gifts and bodiless minstrelsy
Lavish enough! Of rest the
restful crown !
At whose behest are closed the lips that sigh,
weary heads lie down.
Thee, Nodding Spirit! Magic Comforter!
Thee, with faint mouth half
speechless, I invoke,
And straight uplooms through
the dead centuries’ smoke
The agéd Druid in his robe of fur,
Where hang uncut the paly mistletoes.
The mistletoe dissolves
to Indian willow,
Glassing its red stems in the stream that flows
Through the broad interval;
a lazy billow
from my oar lifts the long grass that grows
To be the Naiad’s pillow.
The startled meadow-hen floats off, to sink
Into remoter shades and
The great bees drone about
the thick pea-blooms;
linkéd bubblings of the bobolink,
From the broad-flowered wild parsnip, drown my brain;
The grakles bicker in the
The grasshoppers pipe out their thin refrain
with intenser heat the noon endows:
Then thy weft weakens, and I wake again
Out of my dreamful drowse.
Ah! fetch thy poppy-baths, juices exprest
In fervid sunshine, where
the Javan palm
scarce awakened from its odorous calm
By the enervate wind, that sinks to rest
And sultry silence, murmuring, half asleep,
Cool fragments of the ocean’s
of the surge’s mighty sobs that keep
Forever yearning up the
Mingled with song of Nereids that leap
Where the curled crests
Who sips thy wine may float in Baić’ skies,
flushed Maggiore’s ripples, mindless made
Of storming troubles hard
to be allayed.
Who eats thy berries, for his ears and eyes
Melt with soft Tuscan, glow with arms and lips
and crimson, making mock at reason.
Thy balm on brows by care uneaten drips;
I have thy favors, but I
fear thy treason.
Fain would I hold thee by the dusk wing-tips
Against a grievous season.