|
|
|
Velvet people from Vevay, Belles from some lost summer day, Bees' exclusive coterie. Paris could not lay the fold Belted down with emerald; Venice could not show a cheek Of a tint so lustrous meek. Never such an ambuscade As of brier and leaf displayed For my little damask maid. I had rather wear her grace Than an earl's distinguished face; I had rather dwell like her Than be Duke of Exeter, Royalty enough for me To subdue the bumble-bee! Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets,- Prodigal of blue, Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover's words. On seas of daffodil, Fantastic sailors mingle, And then-the wharf is still. A witchcraft yieldeth me. If any ask me why, 'T were easier to die Than tell. The red upon the hill Taketh away my will; If anybody sneer, Take care, for God is here, That 's all. The breaking of the day Addeth to my degree; If any ask me how, Artist, who drew me so, Must tell! May be seen the dews among, Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying: Do the buds to them belong? Angels when the sun is hottest May be seen the sands among, Stooping, plucking, sighing, flying; Parched the flowers they bear along. |