A Dream of Flowers

Even at their fairest still I love the less The blossoms of the garden than the blooms Won by the mountain climber: theirs the tints And forms that most delight me,—theirs the charm That lends an aureole to the azure heights Whereon they flourish, children of the dews And mountain streamlets. But in sleep sometimes Mountain and meadow blend their gifts in one. This morn I trod the secret path of dreams, And, lo! my wilding flowers sprang thick around me, Alpine and lowland too; and with them sprang Blossoms that never had I known before Except in poets’ pages—fancied forms And hues that shone in more than Alpine light. Poppies incarnadine and rosemary, And violets with gentle eyes were there, And their sweet cousinry, the periwinkles; Night-blooming cereus, agrimony, rue, And stately damask roses, Eastern queens, The noblest-born of flowers; and by their side The panthers of the meadow, tiger-lilies; Came with her trembling banner of perfumed bells The lily of the valley, and the jessamine, Princesses twain with maiden fragrance pure; The azure of the Alpine gentian shone Intense beneath the rival blue of heaven; Along the heights blossomed the Alpine rose, And higher yet the starry edelweiss,— And sweet the wind came o’er the visioned Alp. But now I seemed to wonder at the view, To my dimmed sense a riddle; then was ’ware Of daytime colors blending with my dream, And cleared my eyes, and saw my roguish girl, A witch of seven, with flowers in both her hands, Fresh-gathered in my garden, stealing in Upon my morning vision, and waving me Their fragrance. “Wake!” she cried, and I awoke To her, a sweeter flower than all the rest!