THE MAGNOLIA

Deep in the wood, of scent and song the daughter,
  Perfect and bright is the magnolia born;
White as a flake of foam upon still water,
  White as soft fleece upon rough brambles torn.

Hers is a cup a workman might have fashioned
  Of Grecian marble in an age remote.
Hers is a beauty perfect and impassioned,
  As when a woman bares her rounded throat.

There is a tale of how the moon, her lover,
  Holds her enchanted by some magic spell;
Something about a dove that broods above her,
  Or dies within her breast—I cannot tell.

I cannot say where I have heard the story,
  Upon what poet’s lips; but this I know:
Her heart is like a pearl’s, or like the glory
  Of moonbeams frozen on the spotless snow.