THE ROSE AND THE JASMINE
And there a lone papaya lifting high
Its golden-gourded cresset. Night's high noon
Is luminous; that swooning silvery hour
When the concentrate spirit of the South
Grows visible—so rare, and yet so filled
With tremulous pulsation that it seems
All light and fragrance and ethereal dew.
Two vases—carved from some dark, precious wood,
The red-grained heart of olden trees that cling
To yonder mountain—in the moonlight cast
Their scrolls' deep shadows on the glassy floor.
A proud exotic Rose, brought from the North,
Is set within the one; the other bears
A double Jasmine for its counter-charm.
Here on their thrones, in equal high estate,
The rivals bloom; and both have drunk the dew,
Tending their beauty in the midnight air,
Until their sovereign odors meet and blend,
As voices blend that whisper melody,
Now each distinct, now mingled both in one:
JASMINE
I, like a star, against the woven gloom
Of tresses on Dolores' brow shall rest.
ROSE
And I one happy, happy night shall bloom
Twined in the border of her silken vest.
JASMINE
Throughout our isle the guardian winds deprive
Of all their sweets a hundred common flowers,
To feed my heart with fragrance! Lone they live,
And drop their petals far from trellised bowers.
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