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TO THE PASSION FLOWER.
Well art thou named—thou warm-hued Passion Flower,
Fit emblem of the ardour and caprice
Of that wild passion, Love:—for thou dost change,
Even like him, thy semblance; and thou art coy,
Aye, as the fairest maiden whose young heart
Thy namesake hath invaded. Coy, and proud,
For thou, forsooth, must have the bright sun come,
And wait, and gaze upon thy sleeping face,[1]
Before thou wilt vouchsafe to ope thine eyes
Of starry beauty to our wondering gaze.
And then, ere long, the jealous petals close,
And shut within their selfish clasp the gem
They darken, not admire. And are there not
Some other selfish things in this strange world,
That do the like with flowers of lovelier growth?
Oh! ye are coy and proud—but beautiful—
Wondrously beautiful is every one
Among your varied tribes. Some of ye, pale,[2]
That hang in rich profusion o'er the porch
