With pillared vines on either side, And terraced flowers, stair over stair, Standing in pots of earthenware Where stiff processions filed around— Black on the smooth, sienna ground. Tubers and bulbs now blossomed there Which, in the moisty hot-house air, Lay winter long in patient rows, Glassed snugly in from Christmas snows: Tuberoses, with white, waxy gems In bunches on their reed-like stems; Their fragrance forced by art too soon To mingle with the sweets of June. (So breathes the thin blue smoke, that steals From ashes of the gilt pastilles, Burnt slowly, as the brazier swings, In dim saloons of eastern kings.) I saw the calla's arching cup With yellow spadix standing up, Its liquid scents to stir and mix— The goldenest of toddy-sticks; Roses and purple fuchsia drops; Camellias, which the gardener crops To make the sickening wreaths that lie On coffins when our loved ones die. These all and many more were there; Monsters and grandifloras rare, With tropical broad leaves, grown rank, Drinking the waters of the tank Wherein the lotus-lilies bathe; All curious forms of spur and spathe, Pitcher and sac and cactus-thorn, There in the fresh New England morn. But where the sun came colored through Translucent petals wet with dew, The interspace was carpeted With oriel lights and nodes of red, Orange and blue and violet, That wove strange figures, as they met, Of airier tissue, brighter blooms Than tumble from the Persian looms. So at the pontiff's feasts, they tell, From the board's edge the goblet fell, Spilled from its throat the purple tide And stained the pavement far and wide. Such steps wise Sheba trod upon Up to the throne of Solomon; So bright the angel-crowded steep Which Israel's vision scaled in sleep. What one is she whose feet shall dare Tread that illuminated stair? Like Sheba, queen; like angels, fair? Oh listen! In the morning air The blossoms all are hanging still— The queen is standing on the sill. No Sheba she; her virgin zone Proclaims her royalty alone: (Such royalty the lions own.) Yet all too cheap the patterned stone That paves kings' palaces, to feel The pressure of her gaiter's heel. The girlish grace that lit her face Made sunshine in a dusky place— The old silk hood, demure and quaint, Wherein she seemed an altar-saint Fresh-tinted, though in setting old Of dingy carving and tarnished gold; Her eyes, the candles in that shrine, Making Madonna's face to shine. Lingering I passed, but evermore Abide with me the open door, The doorsteps wide, the flowers that stand In brilliant ranks on either hand, The two white pillars and the vine Of bitter-sweet and lush woodbine, And—from my weary paths as far As Sheba or the angels are— Between, upon the wooden sill, Thou, Queen of Hearts, art standing still. 

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