Poems (Howard)/A June Idyl
A June Idyl.
I dream that I dwell in a beautiful bower, Transported intact from some tropical land; Enriched with as rare and bewildering a dower Of beauty and fragrance as one could demand.
The fairest of flowers are freely perfuming The air that surrounds me wherever I tread; For under my window syringas are blooming, And apple-tree blossoms are thick overhead.
The lilac's luxuriant cones are beginning To open their petals to sunshine and dew, And orchards like spicy amomum are winning Their merited share of encomium too.
Delicious and delicate rose exhalations Commingle with violets dotting the lawn, Where from the corollas of lovely carnations The humming-bird sips till their sweetness is gone.
Rich blooms hyacinthine, but tardily started, Arc now of as exquisite odor possessed As memories dear of companions departed, Or scent-laden breezes from Araby blest.
To swing in a hammock 'mid such efflorescence Is quite the perfection of indolent bliss—I wonder if ever in sweet adolescence My visions of Eden were fairer than this!
Just over the way a fresh silver soprano A soul full of melody seems to repeat, Where Katie is seated beside the piano Rehearsing "The vale where the bright waters meet."
It carries me back to that story by Shelley— Oh, no!—I forget—'twas delightful, Tom MooreWho wrote about Lalla, the princess of Delhi, And—only for love—the long journey she bore
How well I remember, when ardent and glowing With notions romantic, the pleasure I took In reading the poem, and wished I were going To be a Sultana—like fair Lalla Rookh!
O strong the illusion, and binding the glamour A poet can give!—it seems perfectly clear. Though thought is maturer and fancy is calmer, That I am indeed in the vale of Cashmere!