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5:21 p.m. - 2011-11-22
victorian poetry

The Azalea

There, where the sun shines first Against our room,
She trained the gold Azalea, whose perfume
She, Spring-like, from her breathing grace dispersed.
Last night the delicate crests of saffron bloom,
For this their dainty likeness watched and nurst,
Were just at point to burst.
At dawn I dreamed, O God, that she was dead,
And groaned aloud upon my wretched bed,
And waked, ah, God, and did not waken her,
But lay, with eyes still closed,
Perfectly blessed in the delicious sphere
By which I knew so well that she was near,
My heart to speechless thankfulness composed.
Till'gan to stir
A dizzy somewhat in my troubled head
It was the azalea's breath, and she was dead!
The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed,
And I had fallen asleep with to my breast
A chance-found letter pressed
In which she said,
'So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu!
Parting's well-paid with soon again to meet,
Soon in your arms to feel so small and sweet,
Sweet to myself that am so sweet to you!'

By Coventry Patmore

 

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