In the dream she describes, a lover should have brought her orchids—something lovely and dangerous, an offering for the throat he left unkissed. Instead, she keeps returning to the image of his hands drifting over the flowers, careful and gentle, though those hands never took hers. There is no actual bouquet, no written message, only the ache of what was not given. She imagines the note he might have sent: flower to flower, or lover to lover—no kiss, no touch, but forever and ever this. The poem feels suspended between longing and reproach, delicate and mournful. It creates a hothouse mood, sensual but restrained, where desire is preserved in a gesture that never arrives.
At Baia — Summary
I should have thought in a dream you would have brought some lovely, perilous thing, orchids piled in a great sheath, as who would say (in a dream) I send you this, who left the blue veins of your throat unkissed. Why was it that your hands (that never took mine) your hands that I could see drift over the orchid heads so carefully, your hands, so fragile, sure to lift so gently, the fragile flower stuff-- ah, ah, how was it You never sent (in a dream) the very form, the very scent, not heavy, not sensuous, but perilous--perilous-- of orchids, piled in a great sheath, and folded underneath on a bright scroll some word: Flower sent to flower; for white hands, the lesser white, less lovely of flower leaf, or Lover to lover, no kiss, no touch, but forever and ever this.