Overseas, by Madison Cawein

Non numero horas nisi serenas

  When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems
    In soul I am a part of it;
  A portion of its humid beams,
    A form of fog, I seem to flit
      From dreams to dreams….

  An old château sleeps 'mid the hills
    Of France: an avenue of sorbs
  Conceals it: drifts of daffodils
    Bloom by a 'scutcheoned gate with barbs
      Like iron bills.

  I pass the gate unquestioned; yet,
    I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make
  Dark pools of restless violet.
    Between high bramble banks a lake,—
      As in a net

  The tangled scales twist silver,—shines….
    Gray, mossy turrets swell above
  A sea of leaves. And where the pines
    Shade ivied walls, there lies my love,
      My heart divines.

  I know her window, slimly seen
    From distant lanes with hawthorn hedged:
  Her garden, with the nectarine
    Espaliered, and the peach tree, wedged
      'Twixt walls of green.

  Cool-babbling a fountain falls
    From gryphons' mouths in porphyry;
  Carp haunt its waters; and white balls
    Of lilies dip it when the bee
      Creeps in and drawls.

  And butterflies—each with a face
    Of faery on its wings—that seem
  Beheaded pansies, softly chase
    Each other down the gloom and gleam
      Trees interspace.

  And roses! roses, soft as vair,
    Round sylvan statues and the old
  Stone dial—Pompadours, that wear
    Their royalty of purple and gold
      With wanton air….

  Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breathe
    The perfume of her touch; her gloves,
  Modeling the daintiness they sheathe;
    Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves,
      Lie there beneath

  A bank of eglantine, that heaps
    A rose-strewn shadow.—Naïve-eyed,
  With lips as suave as they, she sleeps;
    The romance by her, open wide,
      O'er which she weeps.