LITMIR.BIZ

      All day the primroses have thought of thee,

      Their golden heads close-haremed from the heat;

      All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly

      Veiled snowy faces, – that no bee might greet

      Or butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed; —

      Keeping Sultana-charms for thee, at last,

      Their lord, who comest to salute each sweet.

      Cool-throated flowers that avoid the day's

      Too fervid kisses; every bud that drinks

      The tipsy dew and to the starlight plays

      Nocturns of fragrance, thy wing'd shadow links

      In bonds of secret brotherhood and faith;

      O bearer of their order's shibboleth,

      Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks.

      What dost thou whisper in the balsam's ear

      That sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's, —

      A syllabled silence that no man may hear, —

      As dreamily upon its stem it rocks?

      What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant,

      Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant,

      Some spectre of some perished flower of phlox?

      O voyager of that universe which lies

      Between the four walls of this garden fair, —

      Whose constellations are the fireflies

      That wheel their instant courses everywhere, —

      'Mid fairy firmaments wherein one sees

      Mimic Boötes and the Pleiades,

      Thou steerest like some fairy ship-of-air.

      Gnome-wrought of moonbeam fluff and gossamer,

      Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest

      Mab or King Oberon; or, haply, her

      His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest. —

      Oh for the herb, the magic euphrasy,

      That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah me!

      And all that world at which my soul hath guessed!

      What joy you take in making hotness hotter,

      In emphasising dulness with your buzz,

      Making monotony more monotonous!

      When Summer comes, and drouth hath dried the water

      In all the creeks, we hear your ragged rasp

      Filling the stillness. Or, – as urchins beat

      A stagnant pond whereon the bubbles gasp, —

      Your switch-like music whips the midday heat.

      O bur of sound caught in the Summer's hair,

      We hear you everywhere!

      We hear you in the vines and berry-brambles,

      Along the unkempt lanes, among the weeds,

      Amid the shadeless meadows, gray with seeds,

      And by the wood 'round which the rail-fence rambles,

      Sawing the sunlight with your sultry saw.

      Or, – like to tomboy truants, at their play

      With noisy mirth among the barn's deep straw, —

      You sing away the careless summer-day.

      O brier-like voice that clings in idleness

      To Summer's drowsy dress!

      You tramp of insects, vagrant and unheeding,

      Improvident, who of the summer make

      One long green mealtime, and for winter take

      No care, aye singing or just merely feeding!

      Happy-go-lucky vagabond, – 'though frost

      Shall pierce, ere long, your green coat or your brown,

      And pinch your body, – let no song be lost,

      But as you lived into your grave go down —

      Like some small poet with his little rhyme,

      Forgotten of all time.

      Before the rain, low in the obscure east,

      Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray;

      Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased,

      Wove an enormous web, wherein it lay

      Like some white spider hungry for its prey.

      Vindictive looked the scowling firmament,

      In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray,

      Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent.

      The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stone

      The peevish cricket raised a creaking cry.

      Within the world these sounds were heard alone,

      Save when the ruffian wind swept from the sky,

      Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh;

      Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed,

      That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by,

      Sharded the silence with its feverish speed.

      Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours passed

      Before was heard the thunder's sullen drum

      Rumbling night's hollow; and the Earth at last,

      Restless with waiting, – like a woman, dumb

      With doubting of the love that should have clomb

      Her casement hours ago, – avowed again,

      'Mid protestations, joy that he had come.

      And all night long I heard the Heavens explain.

      Behold the blossom-bosomed Day again,

      With all the star-white Hours in her train,

      Laughs out of pearl-lights through a golden ray,

      That, leaning on the woodland wildness, blends

      A sprinkled amber with the showers that lay

      Their oblong emeralds on the leafy ends.

      Behold her bend with maiden-braided brows

      Above the wildflower, sidewise with its strain

      Of dewy happiness, to kiss again

      Each

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