LIKE a huge Python, winding round and round
The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars,
Up to its very summit near the star
The budding shoot ripens unharmed by the scythe,
Without fear of the press, on vine branches lithe,
Through spring-tide the green clusters bloom.
Is't strange, then, that I in my life's morning hour,
Sitting in a porchway cool,
Sunlight, I see, dying fast,
Twilight hastens on to rule.
Working hours have well-nigh past.
Love came to Flora asking for a flower
That would of flowers be undisputed queen,
The lily and the rose, long, long had been
'Hark! Lakshman! Hark, again that cry!
It is, - it is my husband's voice!
Oh hasten, to his succour fly,