A spicery of sweet perfume,
  As if from regions rankly green
  And these rich hoards of bud and bloom,
  Lay every waft of air between. 
  Out of some heaven’s unfancied screen
  The gorgeous vision seemed to lean. 
  The Oriental kings have seen
  Less beauty in their dais-queen,
  And any limner’s pencil then
  Had drawn the eternal love of men,
  But twice Chance will not intervene.

  For soon with scarce a loving sigh
  She lifts it off half unaware,
  While through the clinging folds held high,
  Arachnean in a silver snare
  Her rosy fingers nimbly fare,
  Till gathered square with dainty care. 
  But still she leaves the flowery flare
 —­Such as Dame Venus’ self might wear—­
  Where first she placed them, since they blow
  More bounteous color hanging so,
  And seem more native to the air.

  Anon the mellow twilight came
  With breath of quiet gently freed
  From sunset’s felt but unseen flame. 
  Then by her casement wheeled in speed
  Strange films, and half the wings indeed
  That steam in rainbows o’er the mead,
  Now magnified in mystery, lead
  Great revolutions to her heed. 
  And leaning out, the night o’erhead,
  Wind-tossed in many a shining thread,
  Hung one long scarf of glittering brede.

  Then as it drew its streamers there,
  And furled its sails to fill and flaunt
  Along fresh firmaments of air
  When ancient morn renewed his chant,—­
  She sighed in thinking on the plant
  Drooping so languidly aslant;
  Fancied some fierce noon’s forest-haunt
  Where wild red things loll forth and pant,
  Their golden antlers wave, and still
  Sigh for a shower that shall distil
  The largess gracious nights do grant.

  The oleanders in the South
  Drape gray hills with their rose, she thought,
  The yellow-tasselled broom through drouth
  Bathing in half a heaven is caught. 
  Jasmine and myrtle flowers are sought
  By winds that leave them fragrance-fraught. 
  To them the wild bee’s path is taught,
  The crystal spheres of rain are brought,
  Beside them on some silent spray
  The nightingales sing night away,
  The darkness wooes them in such sort.

  But this, close shut beneath a roof,
  Knows not the night, the tranquil spell,
  The stillness of the wildwood ouphe,
  The magic dropped on moor and fell. 
  No cool dew soothes its fiery shell,
  Nor any star, a red sardel,
  Swings painted there as in a well. 
  Dyed like a stream of muscadel
  No white-skinned snake coils in its cup
  To drink its soul of sweetness up,
  A honeyed hermit in his cell.

  No humming-bird in emerald coat,
  Shedding the light, and bearing fain
  His ebon spear, while at his throat
  The ruby corselet sparkles plain,
  On wings of misty speed astain
  With amber lustres, hangs amain,
  And tireless hums his happy strain;
  Emperor of some primeval reign,
  Over the ages sails to spill
  The luscious juice of this, and thrill
  Its very heart with blissful pain.