TO RONALD GRAY Breathe soft, my flute, to-night thy wonted melody Until, with careful hands, she lift the lattice-bars, Showing her face among the faces of the stars; Breathe soft, my flute, to-night till she come forth to me. The choirs of birds are hushed within their bower of leaves, But thou must pierce the darkness and the gathered gloom, Climbing toward the lattice of her little room, Where the sweet vines have hung their garlands from the eaves. Fill the green orchard paths with music wrought of tears, With kisses hot, with love my lips have left unshed, Stretch hands for me through all this darkness to her bed, Touch her soft hair, and breathe my message in her ears. Lo! I have gifts for thee, gifts from Amyclae brought, Shoes for the feet I love, and shawls of scarlet wool, Come, my beloved! we shall sit beside the pool And watch within its glass the heavens star-inwrought. |