The Magnolia

Deep in the wood, of scent and song the daughter, Perfect and bright is the magnolia born; White as a flake of foam upon still water, White as soft fleece upon rough brambles torn.

Hers is a cup a workman might have fashioned Of Grecian marble in an age remote. Hers is a beauty perfect and impassioned, As when a woman bares her rounded throat.

There is a tale of how the moon, her lover, Holds her enchanted by some magic spell; Something about a dove that broods above her, Or dies within her breast—I cannot tell.

I cannot say where I have heard the story, Upon what poet's lips; but this I know: Her heart is like a pearl's, or like the glory Of moonbeams frozen on the spotless snow.