Pond Lily, The

Nymph, that floatest on the waters
     Queenly as a swan, 
Purest of the Summer's daughters, 
From whose heart have zephyrs brought us 
     All thy ordorous benison; — 
       Stooping on the brim
          Of thy blue-eyed pool,
  Let me see thy broad leaves swim
         In the wavelets cool.

When the morn, from twilight's budding,
     Bloometh like a rose, 
All the clouds with glory flooding, 
And the stars, heaven's azure studding, 
     Shed their beauty as it grows,— 
         Thou art folded up
           In thy vest of green, 
   From thy gold and pearly cup 
           Pouring sweets unseen.

Soon as any sunny glimmer
     Strikes the level blue, 
And the shadows, dim and dimmer, 
Melt before the delicate shimmer 
     Of each pure and glowing hue, 
        At the earliest kiss
          Of the softest ray, 
   All thy deep heart's sinlessness; 
      Opens to the day.

When the golden hour is fading
     In the blushing west, 
Winds, like honey-bees come laden— 
Like a lover from his maiden,
     With the sweet wealth of thy breast; 
        And the wavelets twine
            Their pure arms around 
   That delightful form of thine, 
           With a low, soft sound. 

Kneeling here; beneath the willow
     On the water's marge, 
Where the twinkling mimic billow 
Rocks thee, on thy liquid pillow, 
     Like a white-sail'd Indian barge 
        With its spicy freight
           Let me lay one kiss, 
   Lighter than the dew-drop's weight, 
           On thy heart of bliss.

I would be thy spirit-sister;
     In my calm thought's deep, 
Pure and sweet, the sole exister, 
Glimpse-view'd through the woody vista — 
     Where old truths, like oak-trees, keep 
        Their high shield above ;
           There to grow, and float, 
   In the soothing breath of love — 
           Silent and remote.

When the rays of glory, beaming
     From the warm life-sun, 
Come through mournful shadows streaming
So for Beauty's choir redeeming 
     Secret sorrow's veiled Nun, 
           I would bare, like thee,

           All my deep heart's-core, 
     While low-breathing poesy
           Steals its honied lore. 
Then, when fades the mortal even,
     Dying in the west, 
I would, every wind of heaven 
Might be fill'd with odors, given
     From the love-blooms of my breast; 
        While the swelling deep
           Of serenest thought, 
   Rocks me to a fragrant sleep
           Dream-refreshed and short.