Your name is like the opening of a flow'r,
The forest's brief and pensive-petalled rose,
Unfolding in a land of larch and pine,
Where shadowy snows
Loiter and sparkle secretly,
Asleep in many a forest-builded bow'r
Made sunless with the close and fragrant vine;
To vanish ere that sultry autumn hour
When the pale grapes are heavy with such wine
As fays of the north might drink
In elfin revelry,
Dancing beneath the ghostly, fluttered gold
Of birches, on some ice-worn ocean-brink,
Where the wide waters hold
Far out, the hue of sapphire-hearted skies
And your sweet eyes.