I CALL her the Red Lily. Lo! she stands From all her milder sister flowers apart; A conscious grace in those fair-folded hands, Pressed on the guileful throbbings of her heart! I call her the Red Lily. As all airs Of North or South, the Lily's leaves that stir, Seem lost in languorous sweetness that despairs Of blissful life or hope, except through her; So this Red Lily of maids, this human flower, Yielding no love, all sweets of love doth take, Twining such spells of passion's secret power As, woven once, what lordliest will can break? |