My love gave me a passion-flower.
I nursed it well - so brief its hour!
'A maiden sat beneath a tree;
Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be,
And she sigheth heavily.
The clouds are marshalling across the sky,
Leaving their deepest tints upon yon range
Of soul-alluring hills. The breeze comes softly,
Saw ye first, arrayed in mist and cloud;
No cheerful lights softened your aspect bold;
A sullen gray, or green, more grave and cold,
There are who separate the eternal light
In forms of man and woman, day and night;
They cannot bear that God be essence quite.
We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone,
Which spake in Greek simplicty of thought,
And in the forms of gods and heroes wrought