The White Peacock

From “Sospiri di Roma” HERE where the sunlight Floodeth the garden, Where the pomegranate Reareth its glory Of gorgeous blossom; Where the oleanders Dream through the noontides; And, like surf o’ the sea Round cliffs of basalt, The thick magnolias In billowy masses Front the sombre green of the ilexes: Here where the heat lies Pale blue in the hollows, Where blue are the shadows On the fronds of the cactus, Where pale blue the gleaming Of fir and cypress, With the cones upon them Amber or glowing With virgin gold: Here where the honey-flower Makes the heat fragrant, As though from the gardens Of Gulistân, Where the bulbul singeth Through a mist of roses, A breath were borne: Here where the dream-flowers, The cream-white poppies Silently waver, And where the Scirocco, Faint in the hollows, Foldeth his soft white wings in the sunlight, And lieth sleeping Deep in the heart of A sea of white violets: Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty, Moveth in silence, and dreamlike, and slowly, White as a snow-drift in mountain valleys When softly upon it the gold light lingers: White as the foam o’ the sea that is driven O’er billows of azure agleam with sun-yellow: Cream-white and soft as the breasts of a girl Moves the White Peacock, as though through the noon-tide A dream of the moonlight were real for a moment. Dim on the beautiful fan that he spreadeth, Foldeth and spreadeth abroad in the sunlight, Dim on the cream-white are blue adumbrations, Shadows so pale in their delicate blueness That visions they seem as of vanishing violets, The fragrant white violets veinèd with azure, Pale, pale as the breath of blue smoke in far woodlands. Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty White as the cloud through the heats of the noon-tide Moves the White Peacock.