Where she reclines
In a rock's cup,
Smooth, tawny--mossed,
Under tall pines,
Her eyes look up,
Her gaze is lost.
Pine--plumes, sea--gray,
When air sings through
The rust--red stems,
Wave slowly, fray
The liquid blue
To flashing gems.
A lizard's haste
Rustles dead leaves;
A light cone drops;
Else this sweet waste
No sound receives
But stirred tree--tops.
A thrill of air
From far slow draws
Its long caress,
Sighed out nowhere;
Then noon at pause
Drinks silentness.
But she; what waft
Of perfume brought
Her musing stirs?
What pure keen draught
Of wine--like thought
Even now is hers?
Her eyes dream dreams;
Coiled foot stirs not,
Nor idle hand.
Spell--drowsed she seems,
Hushed in some plot
Of faery land.
Yet soft, with such
Light lingerings felt
As when boughs part
Again to touch,
Spring, meet and melt
Within her heart
Hope, wish, and prayer,
And memory warm
From far hours, all
Newly aware
Of sudden charm
And wistful call.
Out of lost years
Earth's mystery,
Strange with its pain,
Holy with fears,
Touches her, shy
As breeze, as rain.
And this rich hour
With feeling fills
Too full to hold
Its wealth--a flower
That trembling spills
Seed--spice of gold.
