Midsummer
WHITE as a blossom is the kerchief quaint
Over her sumptuous shoulders lightly laid;
Fairer than any picture men could paint,
In the cool orchard’s fragrant light and shade
She stands and waits: some pensive dream enfolds
Her beauty sweet, and bows her radiant head;
The delicate pale roses that she holds
Seem to have borrowed of her cheek their red.
She waits like some superb but drooping flower
To feel the touch of morning and the sun,
And o’er her head the glowing petals shower,
And to her feet the shifting sunbeams run.
I follow to her feet their pathway fine,
And while my voice the charmèd silence breaks,
What startled splendors from her deep eyes shine!
Into what glory my rich flower awakes!
