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Updated: May 10, 2025
Look upon her again, crouching in her white bed, her knees drawn to her bosom, her deep blue eyes her dawn-tinted eyes filled with ache, dream, and expectation. The shadows of dawn are on wall and floor strange, blue shadows! the Virgin's shadow lies on the wall, the angel's shadow falls across the coverlet.
Or, as one of the poets has better described her: April stood with tearful face With violets in her hands, and in her hair Pale wild anemones; the fragrant lace Half-parted from her breast, which seemed like fair, Dawn-tinted mountain snow, smooth-drifted there. In this long list of April flowers some observers will be able to make it still longer there are many favorites.
All day I drink of the wine and deep In its stainless waves my senses steep; All night my peaceful soul lies drowned In hollows of the cup profound; Again each morn I clamber up The emerald crater of the cup, On massive knobs of jasper stand And view the azure ring expand: I watch the foam-wreaths toss and swim In the wine that o'erruns the jewelled rim, Edges of chrysolite emerge, Dawn-tinted, from the misty surge; My thrilled, uncovered front I lave, My eager senses kiss the wave, And drain, with its viewless draught, the lore That warmeth the bosom's secret core, And the fire that maddens the poet's brain With wild sweet ardor and heavenly pain.
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