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,
A waif on this earth,
Sick, ugly and small,
Contemned from my birth
And rejected by all,
A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen;
'Tis bitter-sweet on winter nights to note,
Beside the palpitating fire reclined,
The chimes, across the fogs, upon the wind.
Now loud, now low, now near and now remote.
The sky is dark, the snow descends:
Ring, bells, ring out your merriest chime!
Jesus is born; the Virgin bends
Above him. Oh, the happy time!