I LOUNGE against my garden-gate;
On one side heaven the sun hangs low;
Down one side crawls the exhausted storm
That flashed and crashed an hour ago.
I lounge and see, with musing eye,
Two roses and a butterfly.
One is a sumptuous languid rose,
That bows its heavy, lovely head,
While each fresh petal’s velvet curve
Burns with the same deep drowsy red;
Circe her subtle self (who knows?)
Plotting new sorceries in a rose!
One is a pale pure bloom, with leaves
Like satin in their lustres mild,
Half-closed, and faintlier flushed than looks
The chaste palm of a little child;
Or pink as some late sunsets are,
That yearn to feel the evening star !
The butterfly’s quick-quivering wings
Wear each the blendings of such hues
As lurk in some old tapestry’s
Dim turmoil of golds, crimsons, blues;
Wings where dull smoldering color lies,
Lit richly with two peacock eyes!
He cannot leave the great red rose;
He flutters near it, loath to part
From all the fragrant charm which girds
That blood-drop warm from summer’s heart!
And ... on the pale rose, glimmering near,
One rain-drop sparkles, like a tear!
Edgar Fawcett.