Ambrosial, that one cannot choose
But find the thought most sumptuous cheer.

Of all fair women she was queen,
And all her beauty, late and soon,
O'ercame you like the mellow sheen
Of some serene autumnal noon.
Her presence like a sweetest tune
Accorded all your thoughts in one.
Than last year's alder-tufts in June
Browner, yet lustrous as a moon
Her eyes glowed on you, and her hair
With such an air as princes wear
She trimmed black-braided in a crown.

A perfect peace prepared her days,
Few were her wants and small her care,
No weary thoughts perplexed her ways,
She hardly knew if she were fair.

Bent lightly at her needle there
In that small room stair over stair,
All fancies blithe and debonair
She deftly wrought on fabrics rare,
All clustered moss, all drifting snow,
All trailing vines, all flowers that blow,
Her daedal fingers laid them bare.

Still at the slowly spreading leaves
She glanced up ever and anon,
If yet the shadow of the eaves
Had paled the dark gloss they put on.
But while her smile like sunlight shone,
The life danced to such blossom blown
That all the roses ever known,
Blanche of Provence, Noisette, or Yonne,
Wore no such tint as this pale streak
That damasked half the rounding cheek
Of each bud great to bursting grown.

And when the perfect flower lay free,
Like some great moth whose gorgeous wings
Fan o'er the husk unconsciously,
Silken, in airy balancings,--
She saw all gay dishevellings
Of fairy flags, whose revellings
Illumine night's enchanted rings.
So royal red no blood of kings
She thought, and Summer in the room
Sealed her escutcheon on their bloom,
In the glad girl's imaginings.

Now, said she, in the heart of the woods
The sweet south-winds assert their power,
And blow apart the snowy snoods
Of trilliums in their thrice-green bower.
Now all the swamps are flushed with dower
Of viscid pink, where, hour by hour,
The bees swim amorous, and a shower
Reddens the stream where cardinals tower.
Far lost in fern of fragrant stir
Her fancies roam, for unto her
All Nature came in this one flower.

Sometimes she set it on the ledge
That it might not be quite forlorn
Of wind and sky, where o'er the edge,
Some gaudy petal, slowly borne,
Fluttered to earth in careless scorn,
Caught, for a fallen piece of morn
From kindling vapors loosely shorn,