II

They knelt in silent anguish by her bed,
  And could not weep; but calmly there she lay. 
  All pain had left her; and the sun’s last ray
Shone through upon her, warming into red
The shady curtains.  In her heart she said: 
  ’Heaven opens; I leave these and go away; 20
  The Bridegroom calls,—­shall the Bride seek to stay?’
Then low upon her breast she bowed her head. 
O lily flower, O gem of priceless worth,
  O dove with patient voice and patient eyes,
O fruitful vine amid a land of dearth,
  O maid replete with loving purities,
Thou bowedst down thy head with friends on earth
  To raise it with the saints in Paradise.

DREAM-LOVE

Young Love lies sleeping
  In May-time of the year,
Among the lilies,
  Lapped in the tender light: 
White lambs come grazing,
  White doves come building there: 
And round about him
  The May-bushes are white.

Soft moss the pillow
  For oh, a softer cheek; 10
Broad leaves cast shadow
  Upon the heavy eyes: 
There winds and waters
  Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There twilight lingers
  The longest in the skies.

Young Love lies dreaming;
  But who shall tell the dream? 
A perfect sunlight
  On rustling forest tips; 20
Or perfect moonlight
  Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
  Or song of cherished lips.

Burn odours round him
  To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
  Around him to and fro;
For oh, in waking
  The sights are not so fair, 30
And song and silence
  Are not like these below.

Young Love lies dreaming
  Till summer days are gone,—­
Dreaming and drowsing
  Away to perfect sleep: 
He sees the beauty
  Sun hath not looked upon,
And tastes the fountain
  Unutterably deep. 40

Him perfect music
  Doth hush unto his rest,
And through the pauses
  The perfect silence calms: 
Oh, poor the voices
  Of earth from east to west,
And poor earth’s stillness
  Between her stately palms.

Young Love lies drowsing
  Away to poppied death; 50
Cool shadows deepen
  Across the sleeping face: 
So fails the summer
  With warm, delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
  To give us in its place?

Draw close the curtains
  Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
  With fading fingers sere:  60
Here the first violets
  Perhaps will bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
  Return to nestle here.