Overseas

Non numero horas nisi serenas

When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems In soul I am a part of it; A portion of its humid beams, A form of fog, I seem to flit From dreams to dreams....

An old château sleeps 'mid the hills Of France: an avenue of sorbs Conceals it: drifts of daffodils Bloom by a 'scutcheoned gate with barbs Like iron bills.

I pass the gate unquestioned; yet, I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make Dark pools of restless violet. Between high bramble banks a lake,-- As in a net

The tangled scales twist silver,--shines.... Gray, mossy turrets swell above A sea of leaves. And where the pines Shade ivied walls, there lies my love, My heart divines.

I know her window, slimly seen From distant lanes with hawthorn hedged: Her garden, with the nectarine Espaliered, and the peach tree, wedged 'Twixt walls of green.

Cool-babbling a fountain falls From gryphons' mouths in porphyry; Carp haunt its waters; and white balls Of lilies dip it when the bee Creeps in and drawls.

And butterflies--each with a face Of faery on its wings--that seem Beheaded pansies, softly chase Each other down the gloom and gleam Trees interspace.

And roses! roses, soft as vair, Round sylvan statues and the old Stone dial--Pompadours, that wear Their royalty of purple and gold With wanton air....

Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breathe The perfume of her touch; her gloves, Modeling the daintiness they sheathe; Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves, Lie there beneath

A bank of eglantine, that heaps A rose-strewn shadow.--Naïve-eyed, With lips as suave as they, she sleeps; The romance by her, open wide, O'er which she weeps.