The Great Mirror of Same-Sex Love - Poetry - 85. ...bees in the heart of a rose...

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“bees in the heart of a rose”

Three poems by Charles Warren Stoddard

At the Spring

I knew a cumbrous hill,

From whose green breast did daintily distill

A throbbing rill.

This is the artery,

And further on the crystal heart must be,

Thought said to me.

All other I forsook,

To follow every twist and curious nook

Of this wild brook.

Among deep mosses set,

I found the glimmering fount that did beget

The rivulet.

No other eye had known

Its secret, nor ear heard, for it made moan

Always alone.

I quaffed it waters clear:

Its limpid music babbled to mine ear

With voice sincere.

Then such a silence fell

Upon me, mantling me, as where a spell

Is wont to dwell.

Yet fled I from the place

At a rude rustling: and fear gave me chase

In my disgrace.

‘Twas a slim water-snake

Slipt like an arrow through the shivering brake,

And left no wake.

But cleft the placid spring

And waved its flaming sword, its forked sting,

In a charmed ring.

     *      *      *      *      *      *

So was the fountain spoiled,

Within its lucid walls a devil coiled –

My trust was foiled. [i]

A Proverb Proved

Will my love’s so truthful eyes

Ever fail me, though I please

From their depths to draw supplies

That could waste the seas?

Will those pure, delicious springs

Ever fail me? Wretched day

When my heart no longer brings

Its life-draught away!

Do they nourish my desire

But to break the golden bowl –

At their margin bid expire

My all-thirsting soul?

No! a voice forever tells

That my love’s so truthful eyes

Are the unfathomed crystal wells

Where within truth lies. [ii]

Through the Shadows

All in a dream in the twilight,

Glimmering stars in their glee,

List to the murmur of far-off

Ripples of tropic seas.

Low in the westward bleeding

The sun slowly sinks in the wave –

Staining and tinting with crimson

The corals that fashion his grave.

Out through the mist and the vapor,

The cloudy wreaths and the rings,

Sunlight has flown like a butterfly

Brushing the gold from its wings.

Quiet is coming and folding

Our troubles away; and our woes

Are hushed in the cool, fragrant shadows,

Like bees in the heart of a rose.

Come on little stars all silver,

For the terrible sun has gone,

And out of the eastern shadows

The moon setteth sail for the dawn.

Pale are the stars – for the morning

Is blooming fresh as May;

So through the shadows we wander,

Seeking the perfect day. [iii]