Lines for a Picture of St. Dorothea
I bear a basket lined with grass.
I' am so' light' and fair'
Men are amazed to watch me pass
With' the básket I bear',
Which in newly drawn green litter
Carries treats of sweet for bitter.
See my lilies: lilies none,
None in Caesar's garden blow.
Quínces, look', when' not one'
Is set in any orchard; no,
Not set because their buds not spring;
Spring not for world is wintering.
But' they came' from' the South',
Where winter-while is all forgot.—
The dew-bell in the mallow's mouth
Is' it quenchèd or not'?
In starry, starry shire it grew:
Which' is it', star' or dew'?—
That a quince I pore upon?
O no it is the sizing moon.
Now her mallow-row is gone
In tufts of evening sky.— So soon?
Sphered so fast, sweet soul?— We see
Fruit nor flower nor Dorothy.
How to name it, blessed it!
Suiting its grace with him or her?
Dorothea—or was your writ
Sérvéd bý méssenger'?
Your parley was not done and there!
You went into the partless air.
It waned into the world of light,
Yet made its market here as well:
My eyes hold yet the rinds and bright
Remainder of a miracle.
O this is bringing! Tears may swarm
Indeed while such a wonder's warm.
Ah dip in blood the palmtree pen
And wordy warrants are flawed through.
More will wear this wand and then
The warpèd world we shall undo.
Proconsul!— Is Sapricius near?—
I find another Christian here.