Page:Maurine and Other Poems (1910).pdf/21

 And hid him with her trailing robe of green, And wound him in her long hair’s shimmering sheen, And rained her ardent kisses on his face. Through the glad glory of the summer land Helen and I went wandering, hand in hand. In winding paths, hard by the ripe wheat-field, White with the promise of a bounteous yield, Across the late shorn meadow—down the hill, Red with the tiger-lily blossoms, till We stood upon the borders of the lake, That like a pretty, placid infant, slept Low at its base: and little ripples crept Along its surface, just as dimples chase Each other o’er an infant’s sleeping face. Helen in idle hours had learned to make A thousand pretty, feminine knick-knacks: For brackets, ottomans, and toilet stands— Labour just suited to her dainty hands. That morning she had been at work in wax, Moulding a wreath of flowers for my room,— Taking her patterns from the living blows, In all their dewy beauty and sweet bloom, Fresh from my garden. Fuchsia, tulip, rose, And trailing ivy, grew beneath her touch, Resembling the living plants as much As life is copied in the form of death: These lacking but the perfume, and that, breath.

And now the wreath was all completed, save The mermaid blossom of all flowerdom, A water-lily, dripping from the wave. And ’twas in search of it that we had come Down to the lake, and wandered on the beach, To see if any lilies grew in reach. Some broken stalks, where flowers late had been; Some buds, with all their beauties folded in, We found, but not the treasure that we sought. And then we turned our footsteps to the spot Where, all impatient of its chain, my boat, The Swan, rocked, asking to be set afloat. It was a dainty row-boat—strong, yet light; Each side a swan was painted snowy white: A present from my uncle, just before He sailed, with Death, to that mysterious strand, Where freighted ships go sailing evermore,