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Blooms of the Berry
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Drear in the Northern angle, hung
With olden arras dusky, where
Tall, shadowy Tristrams fought and sung
For shadowy Isolds fair.
Lies by a dingy cabinet
A tarnished lute upon the floor;
A talon-footed chair is set
Grotesquely by the door.
A carven, testered bedstead stands
With rusty silks draped all about;
And like a moon in murky lands
A mirror glitters out.
Dark in the Northern angle, where
In musty arras eats and clings
The drowsy moth; and frightened there
The wild wind sighs and sings
Adown the roomy flue and takes
And swings the ghostly mirror till
It shrieks and creaks, then pulls and shakes
The curtains with a will.
A starving mouse forever gnaws
Behind a polished panel dark,
And 'long the floor its shadow draws
A poplar in the park.
I have been there when blades of light
Stabbed each dull, stained, and dusty pane;
I have been there at dead of night,
But never will again…
She grew upon my vision as
Heat sucked from the dry summer sod;
In taffetas as green as grass
Silent and faint she trod;
And angry jewels winked and frowned
In serpent coils on neck and wrist,
And 'round her dainty waist was wound
A zone of silver mist.
And icy fair as some bleak land
Her pale, still face stormed o'er with night
Of raven tresses, and her hand
Was beautiful and white.
Before the ebon mirror old
Full tearfully she made her moan,
And then a cock crew far and cold;
I looked and she was gone.
As if had come a sullying breath
And from the limpid mirror passed,
Her presence past, like some near death
Leaving my blood aghast.
Tho' I've been there when blades of light
Stabbed each dull, stained, and dusty pane;
Tho' I've been there at dead of night,
I never will again.
SERENADE
By the burnished laurel line
Glimmering flows the singing stream;
Oily eddies crease and shine
O'er white pebbles, white as cream.
Richest roses bud or die
All about the splendid park;
Fountains glass a wily eye
Where the fawns browse in the dark.
Amber-belted through the night
Floats the alabaster moon,
Stooping o'er th' acacia white
Where my mandolin I tune.
By the twinkling mere I sing
Where lake lilies stretch pale eyes,
And a bulbul there doth fling
Music at the moon who flies.
With a broken syrinx there,
From enameled beds of buds,
Rises Pan in hoof and hair —
Moonlight his dim sculpture floods.
The pale jessamines have felt
The large passion of her gaze;
See! they part – their glories melt
Round her in a starry haze.
THE MIRROR
An antique mirror this,
I like it not at all,
In this lonely room where the goblin gloom
Scowls from the arrased wall.
A mystic mirror framed
In ebon, wildly carved;
With olden arras dusky, where
Tall, shadowy Tristrams fought and sung
For shadowy Isolds fair.
Lies by a dingy cabinet
A tarnished lute upon the floor;
A talon-footed chair is set
Grotesquely by the door.
A carven, testered bedstead stands
With rusty silks draped all about;
And like a moon in murky lands
A mirror glitters out.
Dark in the Northern angle, where
In musty arras eats and clings
The drowsy moth; and frightened there
The wild wind sighs and sings
Adown the roomy flue and takes
And swings the ghostly mirror till
It shrieks and creaks, then pulls and shakes
The curtains with a will.
A starving mouse forever gnaws
Behind a polished panel dark,
And 'long the floor its shadow draws
A poplar in the park.
I have been there when blades of light
Stabbed each dull, stained, and dusty pane;
I have been there at dead of night,
But never will again…
She grew upon my vision as
Heat sucked from the dry summer sod;
In taffetas as green as grass
Silent and faint she trod;
And angry jewels winked and frowned
In serpent coils on neck and wrist,
And 'round her dainty waist was wound
A zone of silver mist.
And icy fair as some bleak land
Her pale, still face stormed o'er with night
Of raven tresses, and her hand
Was beautiful and white.
Before the ebon mirror old
Full tearfully she made her moan,
And then a cock crew far and cold;
I looked and she was gone.
As if had come a sullying breath
And from the limpid mirror passed,
Her presence past, like some near death
Leaving my blood aghast.
Tho' I've been there when blades of light
Stabbed each dull, stained, and dusty pane;
Tho' I've been there at dead of night,
I never will again.
SERENADE
By the burnished laurel line
Glimmering flows the singing stream;
Oily eddies crease and shine
O'er white pebbles, white as cream.
Richest roses bud or die
All about the splendid park;
Fountains glass a wily eye
Where the fawns browse in the dark.
Amber-belted through the night
Floats the alabaster moon,
Stooping o'er th' acacia white
Where my mandolin I tune.
By the twinkling mere I sing
Where lake lilies stretch pale eyes,
And a bulbul there doth fling
Music at the moon who flies.
With a broken syrinx there,
From enameled beds of buds,
Rises Pan in hoof and hair —
Moonlight his dim sculpture floods.
The pale jessamines have felt
The large passion of her gaze;
See! they part – their glories melt
Round her in a starry haze.
THE MIRROR
An antique mirror this,
I like it not at all,
In this lonely room where the goblin gloom
Scowls from the arrased wall.
A mystic mirror framed
In ebon, wildly carved;
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