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Pine,
Rose and Fleur de Lis
by
Susie Frances Harrison
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TO
MIRANDA
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The
paper moon of pink
Has
continents of ink,
An undiscovered literary sphere.
Above
your head it swings,
Above
the golden rings
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| That
drop behind and wave below and softly veil your
ear.
The
moon, like some large pearl,
Looms
calm amid the whirl
Of hearts and stars and planets, pulses all;
The
globe on which we fly,
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The
mimic one on high—
They both are real, and each is but a frail and
wind-chased ball.
The
banners northward flung,
The
silver ribbons hung
Across an amber arch that fades to green;
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The
flash of flying stars,
The
fiery eye of Mars,
The blue of Sirius, ere he drops behind that dusky
screen;
The
colour everywhere,
The
perfume in the air,
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The
mystery and magic of the place;
The
sweet disquietude,
With
revery embued,
This is no cold colonial night—you boast some
other race;
Some
other clime you knew,
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Some
foreign land knew you
When first you shook your curls upon the wind;
In
Grecian meadows sweet,
You
set your girlish feet,
Or laughed in lakes Italian as the parted grass
you thinned.
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No
daughter of the snow,
No
northern bud could blow
Into a gold-crowned blossom, lace-enswathed;
The
soft and sunny South
Has
surely framed that mouth,
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| The
fervid East that glowing skin, those languid limbs,
has |
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bathed. |
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Although
your hair be gold,
It
holds no hint of cold,
But rather guards a bright and secret flame;
I
see from my low place
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A
curl lie on the lace—
It harbours light and warmth that put yon brazen
bowl to shame!
My
place is low but near,
If
I but choose I hear
The tinkle of the cross that strikes your brooch,
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The
little cross—my gift—
Chimes
on as if to lift
My soul to worship, while it guards and consecrates
approach.
We
keep, with voices mute,
A
silence absolute.
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If
I but choose, all’s read within your eyes;
If
you but choose, I may
Upon
your lap just lay
A hand too calm, too confident, to tremble at its
prize.
So—should
we float to-night
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In
some enchanted flight
Towards those stars that mock our mimic moon,
We
need not aught exchange,
Nor
find the new world strange,
Since float with us through ether to some clear
and joyous rune—
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The
pansy’s purple dark,
The
red geranium’s spark,
The rosy oleander, smooth and tall;
The
world of mignonette,
The
morning-glories met
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| By
the vine and sweet clematis climbing up the latticed
wall;
The
white and orange fire
Of
lanterns that conspire
Against the shadows stealing overhead;
The
arching horns of moose,
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The
awnings flapping loose,
The tawny rugs that meet your feet, and make my
supple bed;
The
swing in which you sway,
The
net of gold and gray,
The hammock filled with cushions to the brim,
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The
wine within your hand,
Of
rare and subtle brand,
The glow within your eyes, the low and long repose
of limb;—
If
good enough for this
Sad
world of cankered bliss,
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Perverted
aims, rash hopes, and weak despairs,
These
essences so fine,
These
flowers and scents divine,
That seek the best nor flourish save in pure and
perfect airs,
If
strong enough for all
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The
gales that rock this ball,
The northern tumults both of wind and hail,
This
canopy so free,
This
latticed balcony,
That near the river rears its orange-lighted nest
so frail;
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There
is no world afar,
On
planet or in star,
No mystic country Merlin ever sought,
Too
fair for such a face,
For
such a hidden place
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| Of
sweetest refuge, flower and briar, pain and pleasure
fraught;
There
is no fairy realm,
Where
magic at the helm
Holds back the ever reeling wheel of sense;
No
charmèd gallery,
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On
mountain or by sea,
Where merge the nightly trances in the day-dream’s
joys intense;
No
turret-chamber hewn
In
castle rock, and strewn
With sweetness pluckt at dawn to scent the day;
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No
palace shining fair,
With
gleam of carven stair,
And splash of falling fountain in the courtyard
cool and gray,
Beneath
what cloudless sky,
Too
fair, too sweet, too high,
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To
shelter you, past mistress of delight!
I
deem not half so fair
That
royal room and rare,
Where Isolt sprang with sobs upon the breast of
her lost knight!
That
room so narrow neat,
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Where
Hero, fair and sweet,
Caught young Leander on her outstretched arm,
And
drew him to the light.
From
out th’ encircling night,
And clasped him close and kissed him fast till he
grew strong and
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warm; |
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And
growing warm, grew bold,
And
took with passionate hold
Her paling face between his trembling hands,
And
made her own that hour
The
man’s consummate power
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To
drown her voice, and break her will, and bind her
in love’s
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bands—
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O
sweeter far than it,
This
place wherein we sit,
And sweeter far than lips on other lips,
To
close our eyes and know, |
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Whatever
dreams may go,
The cherished one may stay, nor suffer wrong, nor
fear eclipse!
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