To The White Julienne

AGAIN above thy fragile flowers
  I bend, to bring their perfume nigh;
For only in the evening hours
  Thy odors pass thy blossoms by;
But when the ministering day
  Deserts thee with the warmth and light
That lulled thee,—waking thou wilt pay
  For these, in sweetness, to the night.
O flower of Marie Antoinette!—
  Ungrateful to the lavish day,—
Refusing it thy fragrance,—yet
  Relenting in such generous way,—
Perchance, like thee, while life was bright
  Her soul no holy savour shed,—
Yet scattered incense when grief’s night
  Wept dews of blood upon her head!

I bend, to bring thy perfume near,
  Again,—I cannot leave the spot;
Damp walls and prison gloom are here!
  The beauties of the garden-plot
Are gone,—save thee, White Julienne,
  Fond-handled by the fated queen!—
I hear her sigh above thee,—then
  The sentry’s tread behind the screen!