Nicotia, dearer to the
Than all the grape's bewildering juice,
We worship, unforbid of thee;
And as her incense floats and
In airy spires and wayward whirls,
Or poises on its tremulous stalkA flower of frailest reverie,
So winds and loiters, idly free,
The current of unguided talk,
Now laughter-rippled, and now
In smooth dark pools of deeper
Meanwhile thou mellowest every word,
A sweetly unobtrusive third;
For thou hast magic beyond
To unlock natures each to each;
The unspoken thought thou canst divine;
Thou fill'st the pauses of the
With whispers that to dreamland reach,
And frozen fancy-springs
In Arctic outskirts of the brain.
Sun of all inmost confidences,
To thy rays doth the heart
Its formal calyx of pretences,
That close against rude day's offences,
And open its shy midnight rose!
