Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Silas WeirMitchell519 To a Magnolia Flower in the Garden of the Armenian Convent at Venice
I
Of perfect empire, where at set of sun
In the cool twilight of thy lucent leaves
The dewy freshness told that day was done.
Surpassing loveliness? Art thou not near—
More near than we—to nature’s silentness;
Is it not voiceful to thy finer ear?
Compel to thought. What spring-born yearning lies
Within the quiet of thy stainless breast
That doth with languorous passion seem to rise?
Who with reluctant joy their thoughts confess:
Low-breathing, to these sister spirits give
The virgin mysteries of thy heart to guess.
That sobs all night beside these garden walls?
Canst thou interpret what the lark hath sung
When from the choir of heaven her music falls?
The equal pallor of the risen moon
Disturb thy dreams, dost know to read aright
Her silver tracery on the dark lagoon?
Stirs all the garden folk with vague desires:
Doth there not reach thine apprehensive ear
The faded longing of these dark-robed friars,
Some gray-haired man amid the gathering gloom
For one delirious moment sees again
The gleam of eyes and white-walled Erzeroum?
Or sighed with him who yester-evening sat
Upon the low sea-wall, and saw through tears
His ruined home, and snow-clad Ararat?
That shares the counsels of the nesting bird,
Canst hear the mighty laughter of the earth,
And all that ear of man hath never heard,
Be eloquent for thee, if thou canst read
The glowing rubric of the morning song,
Doth each new day no gentle warning breed?
The fragrant history of the fallen rose,
Unto the prescience of instinctive love
Some humbler prophecy of joy disclose?
The traitor days have thy calm trust betrayed;
The sea-wind boldly parts thy shining leaves
To let the angel in. Be not afraid!
The pure annunciation of the morn
Breathes o’er thy chastity, and to thy soul
The tender thrill of motherhood is borne.
Call every wind to share thy scented breaths!
No life is brief that doth perfection win.
To-day is thine—to-morrow thou art death’s!