Fog

Light silken curtain, colorless and soft,Dreamlike before me floating! what abidesBehind thy pearly veil'sOpaque, mysterious woof?

Where sleek red kine, and dappled, crunch day-longThick, luscious blades and purple clover-heads,Nigh me I still can markCool fields of beaded grass.

No more; for on the rim of the globed worldI seem to stand and stare at nothingness.But songs of unseen birdsAnd tranquil roll of waves

Bring sweet assurance of continuous lifeBeyond this silvery cloud. Fantastic dreams,Of tissue subtler stillThan the wreathed fog, arise,

And cheat my brain with airy vanishingsAnd mystic glories of the world beyond.A whole enchanted townThy baffling folds conceal--

An Orient town, with slender-steepled mosques,Turret from turret springing, dome from dome,Fretted with burning stones,And trellised with red gold.

Through spacious streets, where running waters flow,Sun-screened by fruit-trees and the broad-leaved palm,Past the gay-decked bazaars,Walk turbaned, dark-eyed men.

Hark! you can hear the many murmuring tongues,While loud the merchants vaunt their gorgeous wares.The sultry air is spicedWith fragrance of rich gums,

And through the lattice high in yon dead wall,See where, unveiled, an arch, young, dimpled face,Flushed like a musky peach,Peers down upon the mart!

From her dark, ringleted and bird-poised headShe hath cast back the milk-white silken veil:'Midst the blank blackness thereShe blossoms like a rose.

Beckons she not with those bright, full-orbed eyes,And open arms that like twin moonbeams gleam?Behold her smile on meWith honeyed, scarlet lips!

Divine Scheherazade! I am thine.I come! I come!--Hark! from some far-off mosqueThe shrill muezzin callsThe hour of silent prayer,

And from the lattice he hath scared my love.The lattice vanisheth itself--the street,The mart, the Orient town;Only through still, soft air

That cry is yet prolonged. I wake to hearThe distant fog-horn peal: before mine eyesStands the white wall of mist,Blending with vaporous skies.

Elusive gossamer, imperviousEven to the mighty sun-god's keen red shafts!With what a jealous artThy secret thou dost guard!

Well do I know deep in thine inmost folds,Within an opal hollow, there abidesThe lady of the mist,The Undine of the air--

A slender, winged, ethereal, lily form,Dove-eyed, with fair, free-floating, pearl-wreathed hair,In waving raiment swathedOf changing, irised hues.

Where her feet, rosy as a shell, have grazedThe freshened grass, a richer emerald glows:Into each flower-cupHer cool dews she distills.

She knows the tops of jagged mountain-peaks,She knows the green soft hollows of their sides,And unafraid she floatsO'er the vast-circled seas.

She loves to bask within the moon's wan beams,Lying, night-long upon the moist, dark earth,And leave her seeded pearlsWith morning on the grass.

Ah! that athwart these dim, gray outer courtsOf her fantastic palace I might pass,And reach the inmost shrineOf her chaste solitude,

And feel her cool and dewy fingers pressMy mortal-fevered brow, while in my heartShe poured with tender loveHer healing Lethe-balm!

See! the close curtain moves, the spell dissolves!Slowly it lifts: the dazzling sunshine streamsUpon a newborn worldAnd laughing summer seas.

Swift, snowy-breasted sandbirds twittering glanceThrough crystal air. On the horizon's marge,Like a huge purple wraith,The dusky fog retreats.