  Long hosts of sunlight, and the bright wind blows A tourney-trumpet on the listed hill; Past is the splendour of the royal rose And duchess daffodil. Crowned queen of beauty, in the garden's space, Strong daughter of a bitter race and bold, A ragged beggar with a lovely face, Reigns the sad marigold. And I have sought June's butterfly for days, To find it—like a coreopsis bloom Of this sunflower's plume. Here drones the bee; and there sky-daring wings Voyage blue gulfs of heaven; the last song The red-bird flings me as adieu, still rings Upon yon pear-tree's prong. No angry sunset brims with rubier red The bowl of heaven than the days, indeed, Pour in each blossom of this salvia-bed, Where each leaf seems to bleed. And where the wood-gnats dance, like some slight mist, Above the efforts of the weedy stream, The girl, October, tired of the tryst, Dreams a diviner dream. One foot just dipping the caressing wave, One knee at languid angle; locks that drown Hands nut-stained; hazel-eyed, she lies, and grave, Watching the leaves drift down. |
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