Lash'd from the pond, the iv'ry cygnets sought
The carven steps that plung'd into the pool;
The peacocks scream'd and dragg'd forgotten plumes.
On the sheer turf--all shadows subtly died,
In one large shadow sweeping o'er the land;
Bright windows in the ivy blush'd no more;
The ripe, red walls grew pale--the tall vane dim;
Like a swift off'ring to an angry God,
O'erweighted vines shook plum and apricot,
From trembling trellis, and the rose trees pour'd
A red libation of sweet, ripen'd leaves,
On the trim walks. To the high dove-cote set
A stream of silver wings and violet breasts,
The hawk-like storm swooping on their track.
"Go," said my love, "the storm would whirl me off
"As thistle-down. I'll shelter here--but you--
"You love no storms!" "Where thou art," I said,
"Is all the calm I know--wert thou enthron'd
"On the pivot of the winds--or in the maelstrom,
"Thou holdest in thy hand my palm of peace;
"And, like the eagle, I would break the belts
"Of shouting tempests to return to thee,
"Were I above the storm on broad wings.
"Yet no she-eagle thou! a small, white, lily girl
"I clasp and lift and carry from the rain,
"Across the windy lawn."
With this I wove
Her floating lace about her floating hair,
And crush'd her snowy raiment to my breast,
And while she thought of frowns, but smil'd instead,
And wrote her heart in crimson on her cheeks,
I bounded with her up the breezy slopes,
The storm about us with such airy din,
As of a thousand bugles, that my heart
Took courage in the clamor, and I laid
My lips upon the flow'r of her pink ear,
And said: "I love thee; give me love again!"
And here she pal'd, love has its dread, and then
She clasp'd its joy and redden'd in its light,
Till all the daffodils I trod were pale
Beside the small flow'r red upon my breast.
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