In the fern-choked paths, or where
Lies the little white chateau
Just beyond the forest brink
Like a shell to mark the flow
Of the upper tides and show
Faint, quick pulses of the sea
Throbbing mauve and golden pink
Through its veinless purity.
Lies the little white chateau
Just beyond the forest brink
Like a shell to mark the flow
Of the upper tides and show
Faint, quick pulses of the sea
Throbbing mauve and golden pink
Through its veinless purity.
See the great sunflowers stooping
By the sheer moat edge and drooping
Each the massive chevelure
Of her tawny yellow hair,
Lithe and proud and fiercely fair,
Nymph or dryad—who could say
Which hath stranger, wilder lure
On this verge of night and day?
By the sheer moat edge and drooping
Each the massive chevelure
Of her tawny yellow hair,
Lithe and proud and fiercely fair,
Nymph or dryad—who could say
Which hath stranger, wilder lure
On this verge of night and day?
Now, a flight of swallows whirls
Past the grey-walled chapel; swirls
Swift as eddied soot-flakes through
That low arch whose stones are wound
With clematis heat-embrowned.
Gold heart of the twilight, you
Are too nearly spent, and I
Grieve to see against the blue
Of the darkling middle sky
Moon of gossamer that shows
Neither crescent nor full round,
Kingcup nay, nor golden rose—
But as mid the thickly growing
Purple harebells breezeward blowing
One of phantom white is found.
Past the grey-walled chapel; swirls
Swift as eddied soot-flakes through
That low arch whose stones are wound
With clematis heat-embrowned.
Gold heart of the twilight, you
Are too nearly spent, and I
Grieve to see against the blue
Of the darkling middle sky
Moon of gossamer that shows
Neither crescent nor full round,
Kingcup nay, nor golden rose—
But as mid the thickly growing
Purple harebells breezeward blowing
One of phantom white is found.
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