Šrift:Väiksem АаSuurem Aa
THE FLOWERS OF PROSERPINE
The jewels of the sun are not more rare
Than these that lie upon my lurid halls.
The perfume kiss upon the drowsy air
Is sweet as Spring can hold within her walls.
The spell which night may cast upon her thralls
Is mine; the length of all this gloomy land
Knows no more sun than falls from my white hand.
My wealth great kings have prayed for—in their pride,
Bowing before me. Nay—I hate the place.
I am no queen at heart—my laughter died
That I might wear my crown with regal grace
The very flowers which smile on my sad face
I am afraid of. See! they are the worst
Of all my fears; so fair—yet black accurst.
The languid passion-poppy sways and dips
To show the black heart bursting into flame.
The crimson evil of a satyr's lips
A sneering nodding finger-post of shame;
A thousand other flowers without a name
Huddle all trembling in the dusk behind
Like hunted ghosts, whose eyes are white and blind.
The grass is not the grass that overhead
Cooled my bare feet with daisies' purest snows;
But thick pale blades, like fingers of the dead
Thrust from forgotten graves upon their foes.
Ah—horrid soil! for everything that grows
In this confine but mocks in wicked scorn
The fairness of the land where I was born.