O MAYTIME WOODS!

O Maytime woods! O Maytime lanes and hours! And stars, that knew how often there at night Beside the path, where woodbine odors blew Between the drowsy eyelids of the dusk,—

When, like a great, white, pearly moth, the moon Hung silvering long windows of your room,— I stood among the shrubs! The dark house slept. I watched and waited for — I know not what!—

Some tremor of your gown: a velvet leaf's Unfolding to caresses of the Spring: The rustle of your footsteps: or the dew Syllabling avowal on a tulip's lips

Of odorous scarlet: or the whispered word Of something lovelier than new leaf or rose — The word young lips half murmur in a dream: Serene with sleep, light visions weigh her eyes:

And underneath her window blooms a quince. The night is a sultana who doth rise In slippered caution, to admit a prince, Love, who her eunuchs and her lord defies.

Are these her dreams? or is it that the breeze Pelts me with petals of the quince, and lifts The Balm-o’ - Gilead buds? and seems to squeeze Aroma on aroma through sweet rifts

Of Eden, dripping through the rainy trees. Along the path the buckeye trees begin To heap their hills of blossoms.— Oh, that they Were Romeo ladders, whereby I might win

Her chamber's sanctity!— where dreams must pray About her soul!— That I might enter in!— A dream,— and see the balsam scent erase Its dim intrusion; and the starry night

Conclude majestic pomp; the virgin grace Of every bud abashed before the white, Pure passion-flower of her sleeping face.