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.
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