LITMIR.BIZ

      What though I dreamed of mountain heights,

      Of peaks, the barriers of the world,

      Around whose tops the Northern Lights

      And tempests are unfurled.

      Mine are the footpaths leading through

      Life's lowly fields and woods, – with rifts,

      Above, of heaven's Eden blue, —

      By which the violet lifts

      Its shy appeal; and holding up

      Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine,

      Along the hillside, cup on cup,

      Blooms bright the celandine.

      Where soft upon each flowering stock

      The butterfly spreads damask wings;

      And under grassy loam and rock

      The cottage cricket sings.

      Where overhead eve blooms with fire,

      In which the new moon bends her bow,

      And, arrow-like, one white star by her

      Burns through the afterglow.

      I care not, so the sesame

      I find; the magic flower there,

      Whose touch unseals each mystery

      In water, earth and air.

      That in the oak tree lets me hear

      Its heart's deep speech, its soul's wise words;

      And to my mind makes crystal clear

      The melodies of birds.

      Why should I care, who live aloof

      Beyond the din of life and dust,

      While dreams still share my humble roof,

      And love makes sweet my crust?

      The mottled moth at eventide

      Beats glimmering wings against the pane;

      The slow, sweet lily opens wide,

      White in the dusk like some dim stain;

      The garden dreams on every side

      And breathes faint scents of rain.

      Among the flowering stocks they stand:

      A crimson rose is in his hand.

      Herein the dearness of her is;

      The thirty perfect days of June

      Made one, in maiden loveliness

      Were not more sweet to clasp and kiss,

      With love not more in tune.

      Ah me! I think she is too true,

      Too spiritual for life's rough way;

      For in her eyes her soul looks new —

      Two bluet blossoms, watchet-blue,

      Are not so pure as they.

      So good, so beautiful is she,

      So soft and white, so fond and fair,

      Sometimes my heart fears she may be

      Not long for me, and secretly

      A sister of the air.

      The whippoorwills are calling where

      The golden west is graying;

      "'Tis time," they say, "to meet him there —

      Why are you still delaying?

      "He waits you where the old beech throws

      Its gnarly shadow over

      Wood-violet and the bramble rose,

      Frail maiden-fern and clover.

      "Where elder and the sumach creep

      Above your garden's paling,

      Whereon at noon the lizards sleep

      Like lichens on the railing.

      "Come! ere the early rising moon's

      Gold floods the violet valleys;

      Where mists, like phantom picaroons

      Anchor their stealthy galleys.

      "Come! while the deepening amethyst

      Of dusk above is falling —

      'Tis time to tryst! 'tis time to tryst!"

      The whippoorwills are calling.

      They call you to these twilight ways

      With dewy odor dripping —

      Ah, girlhood, through the rosy haze

      Come like a moonbeam slipping.

      There is a fading inward of the day,

      And all the pansy heaven clasps one star;

      The dwindling acres eastward glimmer gray,

      While all the world to westward smoulders far.

      Now to your glass will you pass for the last time?

      Pass! humming some ballad, I know, —

      Here where I wait it is late and is past time —

      Late! and the moments are slow, are slow.

      There is a drawing downward of the night;

      The bridegroom Heaven bends down to kiss the moon;

      Above, the heights hang silver in her light;

      Below, the woods stretch purple, deep in June.

      There in the dew is it you hiding lawny?

      You, or a moth in the vines? —

      You! – by your hand, where the band twinkles tawny!

      You! – by your ring, like a glowworm, that shines!

      You'd given up hope?

      Believe me.

      Why, is your love so poor?

      I knew you'd not deceive me.

      As many a girl before, —

      Ah, dear, you will forgive me?

      Say no more, sweet, say no more!

      Love trusts, and that's enough, my dear.

      Trust wins to trust; whereof, my dear,

      Love holds to love; and love, my dear,

      Is – well, that's all my lore.

      Come, pay me or I'll scold you. —

      Give me the kiss you owe. —

      You fly

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