EVEN as a radiant woman draws a veil
Of shimmering blue and silver round her form, So thou dost hold thine elemental gauze
About thee. Is it isle or gem we hail,
Set in the pathway of the furious storm,-
In tides that do thee reverence without pause?
The tamarisks are pink as morn's first fire,
In hedges pranked with happy golden stars
Of harvest flowers, as I gain sight of thee
Standing inviolable above the ire
Of the wild ocean, in its ceaseless wars,-
A stately palace robed in mystery.
Sweet to the moth that billowy clematis
Foaming like violent breakers of the main;
Dear to that little, perfumed bloom of gold,—
The wallflower's modest kinsman,-is the kiss
The sun bestows upon it, but my brain
Finds dearer, fairer, what these hours unfold.
Old tavern-keepers hang the May-green boughs
Proudly above their portals: thou dost place
Beauty's live sign above thine ancient door:
The pink dianthus, blossoming on the brows
Of the hot rampart, greets the eager face,
Showing that thou hast mead of Thought in store.
The welcome thou extendest warms and stirs
My happy soul, like some imperial wine:
The outstretched hands of Beauty reach me here!
I fain would make those colours prisoners,
Place them in Memory's magic, jewelled shrine,
And light my spirit with them year by year!
Where the bland river-water meets the brine
The soaring clouds are loveliest; and there,
In the broad estuary, primeval shapes,-
Wind-built unto the day's unique design,-
Bulk hugely, whitely, gloriously fair;
Sharp norland peaks and noble silver capes
Changing to sunlit visages that move
Ever away from those who give them chase-
The tireless hunters of the azure sky-
Fit symbols of our sorrow and our love;
Imaging hopes that light a passionate face
Before it passes to eternity.
Bright as the silver ribands stretching o'er
The shuddering quicksands to the horizon's fire Shine the soul's pathways! Soon a tide shall flow In sad, sweet joy, and suddenly outpour
Upon the ooze and sand of old desire.
New life, and freshening winds of hope shall blow.
From Avranches to Cancale the sands have spread
Their glittering thanksgiving: a wan stain creeps
Farther and farther towards fair Normandy, -
The shadow of Saint Michael, at the head
Of thy fair spire, harmonious rhythm keeps
With the red sun descending on the sea.
Possessed with hope, a vine has caught the wall,—
Clinging as women cling unto their loves,-
Its tendril-hands outstretched for light and air: My soul's vine, too, in this enchanted hall
Puts forth a shoot, and finds a light that moves And Heaven's own breath and glory everywhere.
Those scented webs of golden lace that mark
The fennel's joy in summer, touch the mass
Of mother granite with a human gleam,
And there that wood-the very hierarch
Of forests, feels the bright years rise and pass-
Tragic and sombre as a shadowy dream:
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