174
IN ILLNESS.
It was Night
I stood with thee within a garden; Night,
Yet never hath the Noonday been so fair,
For all the air was luminous, and white
Was every flower that grew around us there;
We did not marvel at their fragrance rare;
Their bloom was but the breathing in of light
That paled into a subtle odour; these
Were gentle ghosts of flowers that other where
Bloomed many-coloured 'neath familiar trees;
Now calm as spirits passed away in prayer,
Large-leaved and beautiful the Jessamine
Hung forth her stars; the Rose did half resign
Her empire with her blush, and over all
The Lily reared her blossomed sceptre tall;
While at our feet the Violet's purple fled
Would whisper mutely of a wound that bled
No longer, then I know not what delight
Fell on our asking spirits that addressed
Each other on the silence, "All is drest
For Death or for the Bridal, each is white
And each is solemn, each hath won for guest
An Angel, and we know not which is best."
I stood with thee within a garden; Night,
Yet never hath the Noonday been so fair,
For all the air was luminous, and white
Was every flower that grew around us there;
We did not marvel at their fragrance rare;
Their bloom was but the breathing in of light
That paled into a subtle odour; these
Were gentle ghosts of flowers that other where
Bloomed many-coloured 'neath familiar trees;
Now calm as spirits passed away in prayer,
Large-leaved and beautiful the Jessamine
Hung forth her stars; the Rose did half resign
Her empire with her blush, and over all
The Lily reared her blossomed sceptre tall;
While at our feet the Violet's purple fled
Would whisper mutely of a wound that bled
No longer, then I know not what delight
Fell on our asking spirits that addressed
Each other on the silence, "All is drest
For Death or for the Bridal, each is white
And each is solemn, each hath won for guest
An Angel, and we know not which is best."
