The Book of the Native

by Charles G.D. Roberts


Love's Translator


When the white moon divides the mist,
    My longing eyes believe
’Tis the white arm my lips have kissed
    Flashing from thy sleeve.

And when the tall white lily sways

    Upon her queenly stalk,
Thy white form fills my dreaming gaze
    Down the garden walk.

When, rich with rose, a wandering air
    Breathes up the leafy place,

It seems to me thy perfumed hair
    Blown across my face.

And when the thrush’s golden note
    Across the gloom is heard,
I think ’tis thy impassioned throat

    Uttering one sweet word.

And when the scarlet poppy-bud
    Breaks, breathing of the south,
A sudden warmth awakes my blood
    Thinking of thy mouth.


And when that dove’s wing dips in flight
    Above the dreaming land,
I see some dear, remembered, white
    Gesture of thy hand.

Wonder and love upon me wait

    In service fair, when I
Into thy sweetness thus translate
    Earth and air and sky.