Amy Lowell (
1874-
1925)
A black cat among
roses,
Phlox,
lilac-misted under a first-quarter
moon,
The sweet smells of
heliotrope and night-scented stock.
The garden is very still,
It is dazed with
moonlight,
Contented with perfume,
Dreaming the
opium dreams of its folded
poppies.
Firefly lights open and vanish
High as the tip buds of the golden glow
Low as the sweet
alyssum flowers at my feet.
Moon-shimmer on leaves and
trellises,
Moon-spikes shafting through the
snowball bush.
Only the little faces of the ladies' delight are alert and staring,
Only the cat, padding between the roses,
Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern
As water is broken by the falling of a leaf.
Then you come,
And you are quiet like the garden,
And white like the alyssum flowers,
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the
fireflies.
Ah,
Beloved, do you see those orange lilies?
They knew my mother,
But who belonging to me will they know
When I am gone.