Did we admire the plumey flowers
On the wide-branched catalpa trees,
And locusts, scenting all the breeze,
And call the balm-trees our bird-towers?
Did we recall the "black bat Night,"
That flew before young Maud walked forth—
And say this Night's wings were too bright
For bats—being feathered, from its birth,
Like butterflies with powdered gold—
Still talking on, from gay to grave,
And trembling lest some sudden wave
Of the soul's deep, grown over-bold,
Should sweep the barriers of reserve,
And whelm us in tumultuous floods
Of unknown power? What did unnerve
Our frames, as if we walked with gods,
Unless they, meaning to destroy,
Had made us mad with a false heaven,
Or drunk with wine and honey given
Only for immortals to enjoy?
Alas, I only knew that late
I'd seemed in an enchanted sphere;
That now I felt the web of fate
Close round me with a mortal fear.
If only once the gods invite
To banquets that are crowned with roses,
16
