JUDITH

O Her eyes are amber-fine —

Dark and deep as wells of wine,

While her smile is like the noon

Splendor of a day of June,

If she sorrow — lo! her face

It is like a flowery space

In bright meadows, overlaid

With light clouds and lulled with shade.

If she laugh — it is the trill

Of the wayward whippoorwill

Over upland pastures, heard

Echoed by the mocking-bird

In dim thickets dense with bloom

And blurred cloyings of perfume.

If she sigh — - a zephyr swells

Over odorous asphodels

And wall lilies in lush plots

Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots.

Then, the soft touch of her hand —

Takes all breath to understand

What to liken it thereto!—

Never roseleaf rinsed with dew

Might slip soother-suave than slips

Her slow palm, the while her lips

Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss

Sweet as heated honey is.