On Rising Thirsty from a Vision of Mrs. Ashdown Watering Blossoms in Her Conservatory

               [A dream
               in which a lotus opened
               and a Lilly appeared.]

     In streams,
  sulking tears chasten
your cheek, making too meek
  what divine hands smoothed
     when meeting there; reaching in,

     I clean
  from your vase its smear;
centuries elapsing tear through
  ivory ripples in a second—a tide as clear
     as ’tis wet, yet, as if seeing into you, saying,

  I am conjuring beauty itself
from perfection painted
  in every crimson fold—
     a spectrum plucked from heaven

     for its own sake;
  I call, fogging your face
with breath, removing from within
  what cobwebs my solitude mistook
     for lace; I call, Appear!

     You’re near—
  I can feel; I hear apples rustling
the bed, blushing the field; touching
  earth makes stars out of us, plunging
     necks aligned to clear skies of their

               wanting and I want it, just a taste;
               ravenous, my Sweet, to place my tongue
               in Eden’s ear this eve’.