Page:Poems Rossetti.djvu/114

Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew
 Betwixt boughs green with sap,
 So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:
   I will not mar the web,
Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.

It shakes—my trees shake—for a wind is roused
   In cavern where it housed:
   Each white and quivering sail,
   Of boats among the water leaves
Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:
   Each maiden sings again—
Each languid maiden, whom the calm
Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm.
   Miles down my river to the sea
    They float and wane,
   Long miles away from me.

   Perhaps they say: "She grieves,
    Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower."
    Perhaps they say: "One hour
More, and we dance among the golden sheaves."
    Perhaps they say: "One hour
     More, and we stand,
     Face to face, hand in hand;
Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!"

    My trees are not in flower,
    I have no bower,
    And gusty creaks my tower,
And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.