The White Chrysanthemum
Where shone the bright Moon brightest
Upon the garden bed,
I saw maiden whitest
Uplift her dainty head.
Pale lay the Frost, and paler
The cheek that felt his kiss;
As a white bride doth veil her
She veiled her brow with this.
Silent the withered garden,
Strewed with the Frost-king's pelf,
Save where the owl, her warden,
Hooteth to cheer himself.
Testing the high and lowly,
Seeking for one most pure—
Only a virgin holy
The Frost-kiss may endure,—
Comes the still one and lingers
Over the blooming bed,
Touching with eager fingers,
Every unguarded head.
All the impassioned flowers,
Seared by his searching breath,
Blackened within their bowers
In the long sleep of death.
Passionate kisses, killed,
Fell on each flowing breast
Of the frail beauties. Stilling,
Lulling them into rest.
Saintly and still and queenly,
Stands the white maiden there,
Wearing his gifts serenely
As maids their jewels wear.
She and the Frost, her lover
In the soft, sleeping light
Of the pure Moon above her
Watch through the waning night
|