Tropic Midnight

THE rain floats off; the crescent moon
Holds in its cup a round of dusk,
Like palm-buds in the month of June
Just breaking through their vernal husk.
Night-blooming agaves fill the sheaf,
To catch the light distilled in showers,
Till overflowing cup and leaf
Its cluster breaks in midnight flowers.

A sensuous stillness north and south
And east and west, and just as sweet
As seeds of pomegranate in the mouth,
Or kisses when young lovers meet,
Breaks in a low, sweet under-tone,
Like brooks that grieve in beds of fern,
As if by curve and pebble-stone
The moon had spilled her silver urn.

Its airy current fills and ripes
The flower and fruit to wanton use ;
It blows the rush’s slender pipes,
And rounds the purple fig with juice;
Like merchants breaking kids of nard
Or jars of olives, desert born,
Pine-apples lift their prickled shard,
And show the seeds of fragrant corn.

Like Hebrew maids, the citrons hold
Their pitchers to the vapor spring,
And fill the hollow rinds of gold
With musky midnight’s flavoring.
So once, I think, earth knew her Lord,
In lands like these of palm and vine,
When midnight gave the sweet accord
That turned the water into wine.