  Three miles of hill it is; and I Came through the woods that waited, dumb, For the cool Summer dusk to come; And lingered there to watch the sky Up which the gradual sunset clomb. A tree-toad quavered in a tree; And then a sudden whip-poor-will Called overhead, so wildly shrill, The startled woodland seemed to see How very lone it was and still. Then through dark boughs its stealthy flight An owl took; and, at sleepy strife, The cricket turned its fairy fife; And through the dead leaves, in the night, Soft rustlings stirred of unseen life. And in the punk-wood everywhere The inserts ticked, or bored below The rotted bark; and, glow on glow, The gleaming fireflies here and there Lit up their Jack-o'-lantern show. I heard a vesper-sparrow sing, Withdrawn, it seemed, into the far Slow sunset's tranquil cinnabar; The sunset, softly smouldering Behind gaunt trunks, with its one star. A dog barked; and down ways, that gleamed, Through dew and clover faint the noise Of cow-bells moved. And then a voice, That sang a-milking, so it seemed, Made glad my heart as some glad boy's. And then the lane; and full in view A farmhouse with a rose-grown gate, And honeysuckle paths, await For night's white moon and love and you— These are the things that made me late. |
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