DARLING of the cloistered flowers,
Rising meekly after showers,
Every cup a waving censer,—
Winds are softer at thy coming;
By thee goes the wild bee, humming
Music richer and intenser.
Indian balsam is thy breathing,
Sabbath stillness thy enwreathing;
Peace and thee no thought can sever.
In thy plaintive looks and tender,
Things of long-forgotten splendor
Thrill my inmost spirit ever.
And I love thee in such fashion,
With so much of truth and passion,
In this sad wish to enshrine thee:
Only pure hearts be thy wearers,
Only gentlest hands thy bearers,
Even if therefore mine resign thee;
Even if now I yield thee wholly
To the pure and gentle solely,
On whose breast thy cheek is lying!
Droop and glisten where she laid thee,
And remember me that made thee,
Dear, so happy in thy dying.