Edgar Fawcett (1847–1904)

STRANGE that in your dark-dappled sanguine flower

The sculpturesque repose can still endure

Of that celestial lily, wrought so pure

It lives as chastity’s white type this hour!

By what mysterious art, what baleful power,

Did you, Diana of all blooms, allure

From Nature’s mood this Mænad vestiture,

And mock with gaudy tints your taintless dower?

Nay, long ago, I dream, through some warm dell

Of Asian lands a wearied tiger stole

Where you, in pale bud, felt your first dews cling;

And while he slept beneath you, it befell

That all his deadly beauty pierced your soul

And made you this fantastic sultry thing!