OVERSEAS

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.