Chapter VI

I see the parlor that my Grace adorns With flowers and with her presence, which is far Above the fragrant presence of all flowers. Grace sits at her piano; on her lips A song of twilight and the evening star. There as the shadows slowly gather round, Gianni comes, and stops a moody hour; She, ice to his approaches; he, despair; But ere he goes, he places in her hand A large ripe orange, fresh from Sicily, And begs her to accept it for his sake. She bows him from the room, and puts the fruit Before her on her music, once again Dreaming of me, and singing some wild song Of Pan, who, by the river straying down, Cut reeds, and blew upon them with such power, He charmed the lilies and the dragon-flies. Now while the song is swaying to its close, I seem to come myself into the room, And clasp true arms about my darling Grace; She lays Gianni's orange in my hand, And says that I must eat it; she would not Have taken it, but that she did not wish To cross him with refusal. So I say, "Surely this stranger has peculiar taste To bring an orange to you--only one. Perhaps there is more in it than we know."

VII.

I seem to have this orange in my room, And in the light of morning turn it round. I find no flaw in it on any side. A goodly orange, ripe, with tender coat Of that deep reddish yellow, like fine gold. Perhaps the tree had wrapped its roots about A chest of treasure, and had drawn the wealth Into its heart to spend it on its fruit. But while I slowly turn the orange round, And look more closely, lo, the slightest cut!-- A deep incision made by some sharp steel. I carefully cut the rind, and without once Breaking the fine apartments of the fruit, Or spilling thence a drop of golden juice, Find that one room through which the steel has passed. This I dissect, and, testing as I can, Fail to discover aught that's poisonous.