In the Garden VI: A Peach

If any sense in mortal dust remains
When mine has been refin'd from flower to flower,
Won from the sun all colours, drunk the shower
And delicate winy dews, and gain'd the gains
Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing
Through half a summer day, for love bestow,
Then in some warm old garden let me grow
To such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thing
As this. Upon a southward-facing wall
I bask, and feel my juices dimly fed
And mellowing, while my bloom comes golden grey:
Keep the wasps from me! But before I fall
Pluck me, white fingers, and o'er two ripe-red
Girl lips O let me richly swoon away!

Collection: 
1863

More from Poet

  • Make thyself known, Sibyl, or let despair Of knowing thee be absolute: I wait Hour-long and waste a soul. What word of fate Hides ’twixt the lips which smile and still forbear? Secret perfection! Mystery too fair! Tangle the sense no more, lest I should hate The delicate tyranny, the inviolate...

  • I found Thee in my heart, O Lord,
    As in some secret shrine;
    I knelt, I waited for Thy word,
    I joyed to name Thee mine.

    I feared to give myself away
    To that or this; beside
    Thy altar on my face I lay,
    And in strong need I cried.

    Those hours are...

  • If any sense in mortal dust remains
    When mine has been refin'd from flower to flower,
    Won from the sun all colours, drunk the shower
    And delicate winy dews, and gain'd the gains
    Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing
    Through half a summer day, for love bestow...