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EPITHALEMIUM

To Vivian's Gowns.

I.

LATE roaming through my Lady's rooms, I found
A door ajar, where delicate perfumes sleep,
And in dim line hang webs and woofs of gowns,
Moth-like, silver without, fire within.
Some, by Parisian masters, held her form
Still prisoned in their wondrous clinging folds,
'Cheruit, worn by Vivian' (as who'd say
Saint-Saëns sung by Melba), till I reached
Those that sang 'Vivian, Vivian!' through each line.

II.

O dim brocades of stately Renaissance,
And satins loved by Bourbons, messalines,
Soft silks that flow and ripple like the waves
About the perfect limbs of Aphrodite,
White velvets Paquin loves to drape and swell --
Rose-hearted chiffon blushing through the gold --
Butterfly-wings, gossamers lily-white --
O fold my Lady round with golden dreams,
Droop ermine from her shoulders, send her forth
Fresh as the dew-drops on the rose of morn,
Blazing with splendour as the sun at noon,
Radiant with argent as the star of eve --
But lead her to my arms -- unrobed -- tonight!
"