One golden twelfth-第一章PART of a checkered year； One summer month， of sunlight， moonlight， mirth， With not a hint of shadows lurking near， Or storm-clouds brewing.
'Twas a royal day：
Voluptuous July held her lover， Earth， With her warm arms， upon her glowing breast， And twined herself about him， as he lay Smiling and panting in his dream-stirred rest.
She bound him with her limbs of perfect grace， And hid him with her trailing robe of green， And wound him in her long hair's shimmering sheen， And rained her ardent kisses on his face.
Through the glad glory of the summer land Helen and I went wandering， hand in hand.
In winding paths， hard by the ripe wheat-field， White with the promise of a bounteous yield， Across the late shorn meadow--down the hill， Red with the tiger-lily blossoms， till We stood upon the borders of the lake， That like a pretty， placid infant， slept Low at its base： and little ripples crept Along its surface， just as dimples chase Each other o'er an infant's sleeping face.
Helen in idle hours had learned to make A thousand pretty， feminine knick-knacks：
For brackets， ottomans， and toilet stands - Labour just suited to her dainty hands.
That morning she had been at work in wax， Moulding a wreath of flowers for my room， - Taking her patterns from the living blows， In all their dewy beauty and sweet bloom， Fresh from my garden. Fuchsia， tulip， rose， And trailing ivy， grew beneath her touch， Resembling the living plants as much As life is copied in the form of death：
These lacking but the perfume， and that， breath.
And now the wreath was all completed， save The mermaid blossom of all flowerdom， A water-lily， dripping from the wave.
And 'twas in search of it that we had come Down to the lake， and wandered on the beach， To see if any lilies grew in reach.
Some broken stalks， where flowers late had been； Some buds， with all their beauties folded in， We found， but not the treasure that we sought.
And then we turned our footsteps to the spot Where， all impatient of its chain， my boat， The Swan， rocked， asking to be set afloat.
It was a dainty row-boat--strong， yet light； Each side a swan was painted snowy white：
A present from my uncle， just before He sailed， with Death， to that mysterious strand， Where freighted ships go sailing evermore， But none return to tell us of the land.
I freed the Swan， and slowly rowed about， Wherever sea-weeds， grass， or green leaves lifted Their tips above the water. So we drifted， While Helen， opposite， leaned idly out And watched for lilies in the waves below， And softly crooned some sweet and dreamy air， That soothed me like a mother's lullabies.
I dropped the oars， and closed my sun-kissed eyes， And let the boat go drifting here and there.
Oh， happy day！ the last of that brief time Of thoughtless youth， when all the world seems bright， Ere that disguised angel men call Woe Leads the sad heart through valleys dark as night， Up to the heights exalted and sublime.
On each blest， happy moment， I am fain To linger long， ere I pass on to pain And sorrow that succeeded.
From day-dreams， As golden as the summer noontide's beams， I was awakened by a voice that cried：
"Strange ship， ahoy！ Fair frigate， whither bound？"
And， starting up， I cast my gaze around， And saw a sail-boat o'er the water glide Close to the Swan， like some live thing of grace； And from it looked the glowing， handsome face Of Vivian.
"Beauteous sirens of the sea， Come sail across the raging main with me！"
He laughed； and leaning， drew our drifting boat Beside his own. "There， now！ step in！" he said； "I'll land you anywhere you want to go - My boat is safer far than yours， I know：
And much more pleasant with its sails all spread.
The Swan？ We'll take the oars， and let it float Ashore at leisure. You， Maurine， sit there - Miss Helen here. Ye gods and little fishes！
I've reached the height of pleasure， and my wishes.
Adieu despondency！ farewell to care！"
'Twas done so quickly： that was Vivian's way.
He did not wait for either yea or nay.
He gave commands， and left you with no choice But just to do the bidding of his voice.
His rare， kind smile， low tones， and manly face Lent to his quick imperiousness a grace And winning charm， completely stripping it Of what might otherwise have seemed unfit.
Leaving no trace of tyranny， but just That nameless force that seemed to say， "You must."
Suiting its pretty title of the Dawn， (So named， he said， that it might rhyme with Swan)， Vivian's sail-boat was carpeted with blue， While all its sails were of a pale rose hue.
The daintiest craft that flirted with the breeze； A poet's fancy in an hour of ease.
Whatever Vivian had was of the best.
His room was like some Sultan's in the East.
His board was always spread as for a feast， Whereat， each meal， he was both host and guest.
He would go hungry sooner than he'd dine At his own table if 'twere illy set.
He so loved things artistic in design - Order and beauty， all about him. Yet So kind he was， if it befell his lot To dine within the humble peasant's cot， He made it seem his native soil to be， And thus displayed the true gentility.
Under the rosy banners of the Dawn， Around the lake we drifted on， and on.
It was a time for dreams， and not for speech.
And so we floated on in silence， each Weaving the fancies suiting such a day.
Helen leaned idly o'er the sail-boat's side， And dipped her rosy fingers in the tide； And I among the cushions half reclined， Half sat， and watched the fleecy clouds at play， While Vivian with his blank-book， opposite， In which he seemed to either sketch or write， Was lost in inspiration of some kind.
No time， no change， no scene， can e'er efface My mind's impression of that hour and place； It stands out like a picture. O'er the years， Black with their robes of sorrow--veiled with tears， Lying with all their lengthened shapes between， Untouched， undimmed， I still behold that scene.
Just as the last of Indian-summer days， Replete with sunlight， crowned with amber haze， Followed by dark and desolate December， Through all the months of winter we remember.
