I CALL her the Red Lily. Lo! she stands
From all her milder sister flowers apart;
A conscious grace in those fair-folded hands,
Pressed on the guileful throbbings of her heart!
I call her the Red Lily. As all airs
Of North or South, the Lily's leaves that stir,
Seem lost in languorous sweetness that despairs
Of blissful life or hope, except through her;
So this Red Lily of maids, this human flower,
Yielding no love, all sweets of love doth take,
Twining such spells of passion's secret power
As, woven once, what lordliest will can break?
