120
THE ENCHANTED GARDEN
Over your head the leaves came rustling, gold of autumn among the boughs;
Over your head the dawn-moths fluttered, dragonflies in their spring carouse,
Dipped to your hair and swept an eyebrow, flicked to your girdle frayed and quaint;
Or the grey mouse nibbled your dusty sandal, undeterred by a sleeping saint.
The pink rose pouted her mouth above you; the lily flung you her pollen gold;
The fruiting hedges had flaunted purple; the ficus crept to you, fold on fold.
Over your head the dawn-moths fluttered, dragonflies in their spring carouse,
Dipped to your hair and swept an eyebrow, flicked to your girdle frayed and quaint;
Or the grey mouse nibbled your dusty sandal, undeterred by a sleeping saint.
The pink rose pouted her mouth above you; the lily flung you her pollen gold;
The fruiting hedges had flaunted purple; the ficus crept to you, fold on fold.
And surely, into your saintly dreaming, there slid the musk of a Vision's mouth;
Carnations carried a cup of perfume, foamed by winds of the amorous South;
The lively bee with his tawny body matched the brown of your gabardine;
Betwixt the curve of your sleeping fingers the grass blades broke in a sheaf of green;
The dews of the night were pearled upon you, dews that the noon sun drank at last;
And the summer rains cooled your ferny pillow; the arms of the twilight held you fast.
Carnations carried a cup of perfume, foamed by winds of the amorous South;
The lively bee with his tawny body matched the brown of your gabardine;
Betwixt the curve of your sleeping fingers the grass blades broke in a sheaf of green;
The dews of the night were pearled upon you, dews that the noon sun drank at last;
And the summer rains cooled your ferny pillow; the arms of the twilight held you fast.
The rosy tendrils of vines swung o'er you, the broad leaves shielded your helpless eyes;
And a bird lit low on a twig to greet you, floating out of the ghostly skies.
St. George came galloping there to save you, did shatter garden and scatter wall?
Did the lily die of a mailed knight's treading? The poplar gold to his broadsword fall?
And a bird lit low on a twig to greet you, floating out of the ghostly skies.
St. George came galloping there to save you, did shatter garden and scatter wall?
Did the lily die of a mailed knight's treading? The poplar gold to his broadsword fall?
