With the morning glory Dawn awakens

And, sighing, chooses a lavender gown.

She tries not to feel too forsaken,

As into Venus's looking-glass she frowns,

For the laceflower at her cuff has fallen

And the flame flower at her heart droops down.

Yestreen for long she had languished

In Dusk's uncertain embrace,

While shooting stars plunged in anguish,

Lady's mantle fell to the ground in a daze,

Till Night finally Dusk did banish

And herself retired in the even's haze.

This morn passing with ponderous slowness

Is yet fragrant, and peaceful, and mild.

Sweet bay and jasmine vie for loveliness

With the honeysuckle blooming wild--

Such serenity, such lack of wilfulness,

Like a well-behaved, innocent child.

The blue laceflower at her sleeve, so fine,

Rivals the delicate perfume of wintergreen.

The flameflower at her heart, blooming like wine

Matches the pink glow upon her cheeks, all a'sheen.

Will her love remain true as columbine?

Alas, the future can ne'er be forseen.

Dusk stands sweeping, with the moonlight broom,

A bleeding heart on the ground, like a fallen kiss.

Pulled to him, in despite, like a thread on a loom,

She steps closer, (Night closing around them like a fist).

And there, in the garden's fragrant gloom,

Nameless colours were re-born as love-in-a-mist.