Deep in the West a berry-coloured bar Of sunset gleams; against which one tall fir Is outlined dark; above which—courier Of dew and dreams—burns dusk's appointed star. And flash on flash, as when the elves wage war In Goblinland, the fireflies bombard The stillness; and, like spirits, o'er the sward The glimmering winds bring fragrance from afar. And now withdrawn into the hill-wood belts A whippoorwill; while, with attendant states Of purple and silver, slow the great moon melts Into the night—to show me where she waits,— Like some slim moonbeam,—by the old beech-tree, Who keeps her lips, fresh as a flower, for me. |