Overseas

Non numero horas nisi serenas     When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems     In soul I am a part of it;     A portion of its humid beams,     A form of fog, I seem to flit     From dreams to dreams....     An old chteau sleeps 'mid the hills     Of France: an avenue of sorbs     Conceals it: drifts of daffodils     Bloom by a 'scutcheoned gate with barbs     Like iron bills.     I pass the gate unquestioned; yet,     I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make     Dark pools of restless violet.     Between high bramble banks a lake, -     As in a net     The tangled scales twist silver, - shines....     Gray, mossy turrets swell above     A sea of leaves. And where the pines     Shade ivied walls, there lies my love,     My heart divines.     I know her window, slimly seen     From distant lanes with hawthorn hedged:     Her garden, with the nectarine     Espaliered, and the peach tree, wedged     'Twixt walls of green.     Cool-babbling a fountain falls     From gryphons' mouths in porphyry;     Carp haunt its waters; and white balls     Of lilies dip it when the bee     Creeps in and drawls.     And butterflies - each with a face     Of faery on its wings - that seem     Beheaded pansies, softly chase     Each other down the gloom and gleam     Trees interspace.     And roses! roses, soft as vair,     Round sylvan statues and the old     Stone dial - Pompadours, that wear     Their royalty of purple and gold     With wanton air....     Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breathe     The perfume of her touch; her gloves,     Modeling the daintiness they sheathe;     Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves,     Lie there beneath     A bank of eglantine, that heaps     A rose-strewn shadow. - Nave-eyed,     With lips as suave as they, she sleeps;     The romance by her, open wide,     O'er which she weeps.