Roses, Donnas, roses!
Roses waxen fair!
Acolytes my roses,
Censing ladies' pray'r!
Roses, roses, roses!
Hear the tawny bull
Thund'ring in the circus--
Buy your arms full.
Roses by the dozen!
Roses by the score!
Pelt the victor with them--
Bull or Toreador!
BETWEEN THE WIND AND RAIN.
"The storm is in the air," she said, and held
Her soft palm to the breeze; and looking up,
Swift sunbeams brush'd the crystal of her eyes,
As swallows leave the skies to skim the brown,
Bright woodland lakes. "The rain is in the air.
"O Prophet Wind, what hast thou told the rose,
"That suddenly she loosens her red heart,
"And sends long, perfum'd sighs about the place?
"O Prophet Wind, what hast thou told the Swift,
"That from the airy eave, she, shadow-grey,
"Smites the blue pond, and speeds her glancing wing
"Close to the daffodils? What hast thou told small bells,
"And tender buds, that--all unlike the rose--
"They draw green leaves close, close about their breasts
"And shrink to sudden slumber? The sycamores
"In ev'ry leaf are eloquent with thee;
"The poplars busy all their silver tongues
"With answ'ring thee, and the round chestnut stirs
"Vastly but softly, at thy prophecies.
"The vines grow dusky with a deeper green--
"And with their tendrils snatch thy passing harp,
"And keep it by brief seconds in their leaves.
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