AMINA.
She was the Sun's bride—such mock majesty
Her vagrant fancy took. His chosen bride;
For he had won her with one burning kiss
Pressed on her forehead, as an August noon
Stooped to the reeling vineyards.
Mad Amina!
But hers was lovely madness. Pity's self
Withheld its meed. Eyes brimful of sweet laughter,
Black hair bound up with flowers, limbs light as breezes—
Behold Amina! Flying from her kind,
She haunted rocks and caves; gentlest of all
The gentle things she dwelt among. The fawns
That rested in the valleys, knew her step
And fled not. From the oaks' broad canopy
The birds sang ever louder as she passed.
Her vagrant fancy took. His chosen bride;
For he had won her with one burning kiss
Pressed on her forehead, as an August noon
Stooped to the reeling vineyards.
Mad Amina!
But hers was lovely madness. Pity's self
Withheld its meed. Eyes brimful of sweet laughter,
Black hair bound up with flowers, limbs light as breezes—
Behold Amina! Flying from her kind,
She haunted rocks and caves; gentlest of all
The gentle things she dwelt among. The fawns
That rested in the valleys, knew her step
And fled not. From the oaks' broad canopy
The birds sang ever louder as she passed.
All her glad life was poetry. She hymned
The Sun at morn and wept for him at eve.
She climbed the mountain precipice to give
The eagles messages, what time they beat
Their wings against the brazen dome of noon.
The waves her bridegroom kissed baptized her brow,
The flowers he warmed were hid within her breast.
The Sun at morn and wept for him at eve.
She climbed the mountain precipice to give
The eagles messages, what time they beat
Their wings against the brazen dome of noon.
The waves her bridegroom kissed baptized her brow,
The flowers he warmed were hid within her breast.
Noon had lain down among the harvest fields,
The reapers were gone home. Amina there,
Prone amid flowers, her clasped hands on her brow,
Talked to the cumbrous shadows.
Cloud on cloud
Rolled to the west and melted at its verge,
And left a dome of dusky azure, where
Evening seemed busy spinning her thin web,
Though it was noon. Whence fell the shadowy sadness?
Over the pools the trees hung motionless,
And watched their fading pictures. In the thicket,
No insect chirrupped, and no tuneful bee
Sang in the rose. But from the distant grange,
A cock crowed shrill and ghostly as the blue
Distilled a stealthy twilight.
Darker yet,
The owl was hooting, and the giddy bat
Wheeled on his drunken flight. The wood-birds fled
Unwearied to their nests. Along the hollows,
The cattle in their pastures seemed asleep.
The reapers were gone home. Amina there,
Prone amid flowers, her clasped hands on her brow,
Talked to the cumbrous shadows.
Cloud on cloud
Rolled to the west and melted at its verge,
And left a dome of dusky azure, where
Evening seemed busy spinning her thin web,
Though it was noon. Whence fell the shadowy sadness?
Over the pools the trees hung motionless,
And watched their fading pictures. In the thicket,
No insect chirrupped, and no tuneful bee
Sang in the rose. But from the distant grange,
A cock crowed shrill and ghostly as the blue
Distilled a stealthy twilight.
Darker yet,
The owl was hooting, and the giddy bat
Wheeled on his drunken flight. The wood-birds fled
Unwearied to their nests. Along the hollows,
The cattle in their pastures seemed asleep.
Amina, crouching in the harvest blooms,
Upraised her questioning eyes. Oh, wonder thus
To see the great Sun like a flower fade
Out of the fields of heaven! oh, worse than wonder!
Shrieking she rose. Into the valley strayed
A mountain path. Up this, Amina sprang,
Plucking the gaudy chaplets from her hair.
Mid-way betwixt bleak crest and wooded base
She halted, wild and breathless. At her feet,
A jutting crag burst from the forest boughs
And overhung the valley. Downward gazing,
She saw the ghastly upturned face of earth,
Then dared to look above. A lurid ring
Half circled the dim chalice of the sun
That overflowed with darkness.
Was he dying?—
The royal lover to her madness wedded—
Slain in his chariot as a king in battle—
Or only veiling in capricious anger
The long love-look that woke his bride at morn,
And dwelt on her at noon, and lingered brightly
Round her at eve? She knelt with outstretched arms
Till, shorn of every beam, she saw her monarch
Discrowned, a blind and beggared outcast, grope
His way across the blasted plains of heaven.
Upraised her questioning eyes. Oh, wonder thus
To see the great Sun like a flower fade
Out of the fields of heaven! oh, worse than wonder!
Shrieking she rose. Into the valley strayed
A mountain path. Up this, Amina sprang,
Plucking the gaudy chaplets from her hair.
Mid-way betwixt bleak crest and wooded base
She halted, wild and breathless. At her feet,
A jutting crag burst from the forest boughs
And overhung the valley. Downward gazing,
She saw the ghastly upturned face of earth,
Then dared to look above. A lurid ring
Half circled the dim chalice of the sun
That overflowed with darkness.
Was he dying?—
The royal lover to her madness wedded—
Slain in his chariot as a king in battle—
Or only veiling in capricious anger
The long love-look that woke his bride at morn,
And dwelt on her at noon, and lingered brightly
Round her at eve? She knelt with outstretched arms
Till, shorn of every beam, she saw her monarch
Discrowned, a blind and beggared outcast, grope
His way across the blasted plains of heaven.
The wondrous shadow faded—cheerful day
Lit the blithe reapers to their work again.
When sunset came, one, leaning on his scythe,
And following with his eye a hawk's flight upward,
Marked on the moss-capped overhanging rock,
A white prone form, and said, "It is Amina.
She sleeps, and does not wake to say farewell,
Kneeling with claspèd hands, to the late Sun
That flares his crimson torch across her eyelids."
But on the morrow, as a hunter hears
The quarry home—some white-limbed tender doe—
He came down from the mountain through the valleys,
Amina's light form hanging o'er his shoulder.
For she was dead for sorrow, mad Amina!
Lit the blithe reapers to their work again.
When sunset came, one, leaning on his scythe,
And following with his eye a hawk's flight upward,
Marked on the moss-capped overhanging rock,
A white prone form, and said, "It is Amina.
She sleeps, and does not wake to say farewell,
Kneeling with claspèd hands, to the late Sun
That flares his crimson torch across her eyelids."
But on the morrow, as a hunter hears
The quarry home—some white-limbed tender doe—
He came down from the mountain through the valleys,
Amina's light form hanging o'er his shoulder.
For she was dead for sorrow, mad Amina!