Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/Stone Apples
STONE APPLES
’Mid the shimmer of lamps and the redowa’s dash,
Where the trumpet the thick-tongued song salutes—
’Mid the flutter of gauze and the diamond’s flash,
’Mid the masquerade of flutes!
The boreal wind outside was keen,
And the heavens had frosty eyes that night;
Within was the realm of a tropic queen,
Auroral with delight.
Amiddle the foam of the frescoed ships
On the pictured walls were the genii grim;
And the languid lotus, with chaliced lips,
Was nectared to the brim.
Here bevies of blondes with hyacinth hair,
Flirt their silver arms ’mid the fervid dance;
And the dusk-eyed brunette wreathes her snare
Through the sensuous advance.
The vivid, voluptuous waltz is done,
But the beaux are busy as they can be;
The buzzing butterflies round the sun
Of a dazzling coterie.
But I, in the wavering whirl of mirth
Cast gloom and glamour far and wide;
To me ’twas the emptiness of earth—
The feast of the Barmecide.
And there in a niche by the colonnade,
Alone with the crisp and biting breeze,
I counted the curves by the river made,
And the grenadier-like trees.
And I vow that the cold and dark to me
Were better than melody, wit and wine,
For I saw, what never on earth should be,
Under the chill moonshine.
I saw by the sinewy river side
A willowy cottage, neat and white,
Where the bayou ripples prank and glide
To the clover aleft and right.
And a damsel, shaming the damsels here,
With nought of their satin and silk and pearls,
She—in a modest, maidenly sphere,
They—like the Gwazee girls!
Oh, how I worshipped you then and there,
The mother of God alone can tell—
With the bandeau dimming your starry hair,
And your hand in mine, Estelle!
Lo! the boreal wind blew warm and soft,
And the heavens had gentle eyes for all—
I looked, with a gallant smile, aloft,
And my spirit had no gall.
My steps were turned to the ball again,
With an arching front and a springy tread—
“Oh, she is an angel to this train;
She is better than any,” I said.
And better is she, sweet child, away
In that willowy cottage, neat and white,
For she is the darlingest bird of day,
But these are the birds of night.
The dear God nestles her eyes in sleep,
And her visions are beautiful and serene;
The dawn has nothing for her to weep,
With a flushed, disheveled mien.
And I swear, as I murmured things like these,
And even the revelry seemed but good,
I saw, ’mid its giddiest ecstacies,
My Violet of the Wood.
Not in the garb of the olden days,
But tricked with a tinselry of toys—
And she frowned as she met my eager gaze,
And she smiled o’er the foppish joys.
And she, high and haughtily, brushed me by,
To harvest the spoils of her fevered bliss—
To drink in the honeyed laugh and lie,
The honeyed serpent’s hiss.
Yes! the boreal wind cut keen and bleak,
And the heavens had frosty eyes once more,
For the apples I plucked from the Venus-cheek
Were petrified to the core!
And I sighed to my heart: “My love is rash,
Since these are the false and blasting fruits;
I thrust it back ’mid the diamond’s flash,
’Mid the masquerade of flutes”!