To A Friend Who Sent Me A Box Of Violets

Nay, more than violets     These thoughts of thine, friend!     Rather thy reedy brook--     Taw's tributary--     At midnight murmuring,     Descried them, the delicate     Dark-eyed goddesses,     There by his cressy bed     Dissolved and dreaming     Dreams that distilled into dew     All the purple of night,     All the shine of a planet.     Whereat he whispered;     And they arising--     Of day's forget-me-nots     The duskier sisters--     Descended, relinquished     The orchard, the trout-pool,     Torridge and Tamar,     The Druid circles,     Sheepfolds of Dartmoor,     Granite and sandstone;     By Roughtor, Dozmare,     Down the vale of the Fowey     Moving in silence,     Brushing the nightshade     By bridges cyclopean,     By Trevenna, Treverbyn,     Lawharne and Largin,     By Glynn, Lanhydrock,     Restormel, Lostwithiel,     Dark wood, dim water, dreaming town;     Down the vale of the Fowey     To the tidal water     Washing the feet     Of fair St Winnow--     Each, in her exile     Musing the message,     Passed, as the starlit     Shadow of Ruth from the land of the Moabite.     So they came,     Valley-born, valley-nurtured--     Came to the tideway     The jetties, the anchorage,     The salt wind piping,     Snoring in Equinox,     By ships at anchor,     By quays tormented,     Storm-bitten streets;     Came to the Haven     Crying, "Ah, shelter us,     The strayed ambassadors,     Love's lost legation     On a comfortless coast!"     Nay, but a little sleep,     A little folding     Of petals to the lull     Of quiet rainfalls--     Here in my garden,     In angle sheltered     From north and east wind--     Softly shall recreate     The courage of charity,     Henceforth not to me only     Breathing the message.     Clean-breath'd Sirens!     Hencefore the mariner.