Blooms of the Berry. Cawein Madison Julius

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      The juice-big apples' sullen gold,

      Like lazy Sultans laughed and lolled

      'Mid heavy mats of leaves that lay

      Green-flatten'd 'gainst the glaring day;

      And here a pear of rusty brown,

      And peaches on whose brows the down

      Waxed furry as the ears of Pan,

      And, like Diana's cheeks, whose tan

      Burnt tender secresies of fire,

      Or wan as Psyche's with desire

      Of lips that love to kiss or taste

      Voluptuous ripeness there sweet placed.

      And down the orchard vistas he, —

      Barefooted, trousers out at knee,

      Face shadowing from the sloping sun

      A hat of straw, brim-sagging broad, —

      Came, lowly whistling some vague tune,

      Upon the sunbeam-sprinkled road.

      Lank in his hand a twig with which

      In boyish thoughtlessness he crushed

      Rare pennyroyal myriads rich

      In pungent souls that warmly gushed.

      Before him whirled in rattling fear

      The saffron-bellied grasshopper;

      And ringing from the musky dells

      Came faint the cows' melodious bells,

      Where whimp'ring like a fretful hound

      The fountain bubbled up in sound.

      Yellow as sunset skies and pale

      As fairy clouds that stay or sail

      Thro' azure vaults of summer, blue

      As summer heavens the violets grew;

      And mosses on which spurts of light

      Fell laughing, like the lips one might

      Feign for a Hebe or a girl

      Whose mouth heat-lightens up with pearl;

      Limp ferns in murmuring shadows shrunk

      And silent as if stunned or drunk

      With moist aromas of the wood;

      Dry rustlings of the quietude;

      On silver fronds' thin tresses new

      Cold limpid blisters of the dew.

      Across the rambling fence she leaned:

      A gingham gown to ankles bare;

      Her artless beauty, bonnet-screened,

      Tempestuous with its stormy hair.

      A rain-crow gurgled in a vine, —

      She heard it not – a step she hears;

      The wild rose smelt like delicate wine, —

      She knew it not – 'tis he that nears.

      With smiles of greeting all her face

      Grew musical; with rustic grace

      He leant beside her, and they had

      Some parley, with light laughter glad;

      I know not what; I know but this,

      Its final period was a kiss.

      Wafted o'er purple seas,

      From gold Hesperides,

      Mixed with the southern breeze,

      Hail to us spirits!

      Dripping with fragrant rains,

      Fire of our ardent veins,

      Life of the barren plains,

      Woodlands and germs that the woodland inherits.

      Wan as the creamy mist,

      Tinged with pale amethyst,

      Warm with the sun that kissed

      Vine-tangled mountains

      Looming o'er tropic lakes,

      Where ev'ry air that shakes

      Tamarisk coverts makes

      Music that haunts like the falling of fountains.

      Swift are our flashing feet,

      Fleet with the winds that meet,

      Winds that, blown, billow sweet,

      And with light porous,

      Boom with the drunken bees,

      Sigh with the surge of seas,

      Rush with the rush of trees,

      Birds and wild wings and of torrents sonorous.

      Stars in our liquid eyes,

      Stars of the darkest skies,

      And on our fingers lies

      Starlight; and shadows,

      Unmooned, of nights that creep

      Hide in our tresses deep,

      And in our limbs white sleep

      Dreams like a baby in asphodel meadows.

      Music of many streams,

      Strength of a million beams,

      Fire and sainted dreams,

      Murmuring lowly,

      Pulse on hot lips of light,

      Which, what they kiss of blight,

      Quicken and blossom white,

      Raise to be beautiful, perfect, and holy.

      Oh, will you sit and wait,

      When fields, erst desolate,

      Now are intoxicate

      With life that flowers?

      Purple with love and rife

      With their fierce budded life,

      Passion and rosy strife

      Drained from warm winds and the turbulent showers?

      Nay! at our feet you'll lie:

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