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Show THE1 HOUSE OF ORCHIDS. By George Sterling. How swift a step from zone to zone! A moment since, the day Was cool with wind from llnden-boweis flown And breath of mounded hay That ripens on the plains, Beneath the shadow of the western hill; But here the air is still, Warm as a Lesbian valley's afternoon Made langorous with June And moist with spirits of unnumbered rains, Pervaded with a perfume that might be Of rainbow-haunted lands beyond tn oca, And ocean-ending sands ' A ghost of fragrance whose elusive hands Touch not the hidden harp of memory. What sprites are these that gleam? Can eyes betray? Till now I did not deem That Beauty's flaming hands could shape In bloom So marvelous and delicate designs. The vision here that shines Seems not a fabric of our mortal day And Nature's tireless loom, By custom long defiled, But symbol of a loveliness supreme, A god's forgotten dream In alabaster told by elfin skill In caverns underneath a haunted hill, Or in some palace of enchantment hewn From crystal In the twilights of the moon, Where white Astarte strays And Echo and the sllver-footen fays Make alien music, fugitive and wild. Ye seem as flowers exiled, More beautiful because they die so soon; But who the gods that could have scorned J Your tenderness unmarred? I Put first ye fortn your fragile wings, Less of the form than of the soul of things, Where seraphim had mourned In Eden's evening, heavy-starred, When first the gates were barred And cruel Time began? For mystery hath lordship here, and ye Seem spirit-flowers born to startle man With intimations of eternity And hint of what the flowers of Heaven m, oe. Noi can your glamour greatly seem of earth: Her blossoms are of mirth, But ye with loveliness can tell of grief Unhappy love most exquisite and brief. Winged ye seem and fleet, Such flowers pale as are Worn by the goddess of a distant star Before whose holy eyes Beauty and evening meet, Mysterious beauty delicate and strange, And evening-calm that sighs With Music's Inexpressible surmise Her question ere she dies. From form to form ye range. From hue to hue, And this, with petals wan and mystical, Seems votive to those spirits of the dew That weep at silvern twilights silently, With tears that gently fall On hidden elves dim-curtained by the rose. And thou, thy chalice better glows In purple grottos where the stainless sea On sands invlolablo swirls On evanescent pearls, That hold not all thy bosom's purity. And thou, more white Than when on some blue lake, Jubt as the zephyrs wake, The ilpples flash to light Touched by a swan's unsullied breasttq loam, MfiHHMifiHHfiHBHHNBHHGflBHBHHBi Hadst thou in melancholy halls thy home? For long ago thou Beemest to have slept, Forlorn, in palace-glOdms whora queens hav wept Ah! they too slept at last, Whose sighs are half the music of the Past! But thou, O palest one! Dost seem to scorn the sun, And, in a tropic, dense, Lanquid magnificence, Desire to know thy former place, Where no man comes at night. And in its antic flight Behold the vampire-bat veer off from thee As from a phantom face, Oi watch Antares' light peer craftily Down from the dank and moonless sky, As goblins eyes might gleam Or baleful rubies glare, Muffled in smoke or incense-laden air. And thou, most weird companion, thou dost seem Some mottled moth of hell, That stealthily might fly To hover there above the carnal bell Of some black lily, still and venomous, And poise forever thus. "Chill, in thy drowsy aether warm, Softly thou gleamest, subtler form; Witch-bloom thou seem'st to be, For Lilith would have bound thee in her hair Smiling at dusk inscrutably, And Circe gathered such for gods to wear, In evenings when the moon, A sorceress who steals in white Along the cloudy parapets of night, In every glade her ghostly pearl hath strewn. Thou art as violet-wan As eyelids of a vestal dead and meek. If after-life can come to blossoms gone, Surely Persephone Shall crown her brow with thee, In realms where burns no star nor sun To show the dead what amaranths to seek. And ah this other! none Of all thy kin more purely is arrayed Pallid as Aphrodite's cheek To some long passion-swoon betrayed, By ecstasy toretold; Yet as with blood thy bosom gleams; Red as Adonis' wound it seems, By Syria mourned of old, Or scarlet lips that drink from bowls of jade, Slowly, an ivory poison, sweet and cold. Oh! mystically strange That speechless things should so have power to hint, With subtle form and tint That seize the heart's high memories unawaie, The sorrow and the mystery of Change, And elements in Fate's controlling plan Not altogether ministrantto man Nor mindful of his care Some joy to death akin, Or tragic kiss, or fruit malignly fair, Some garden built by Sin For Love to wander in, Some face whose beauty bids the heart despair! And yet, O blossoms pure! How marvelous the lure Of your fragility and innocence This grace and wistfulness of helpless things That ask no recompense! Ye give the spirit wings, For yours the beauty that is near to pain, And stir the heart again With visions of the Flowers that abide Ah! sweet x As when love's glances meet Across the music, heard at eventide! Lloyden, Juno, 1909. . - Town Talk. |