  WHEN all the west is red at set of sun, And cool airs waken which were hushed at noon, And crickets chirr and trill, and one by one The birds’ songs die away to sleepy croon, And each white lily on the garden walk, Dew-heavy, hangs its head upon its stalk; When dawning soft and faint upon the blue, The vague, mysterious, dreamy blue of night, The first dim planet glimmers into view, ’Tis then it opens with a shy delight Its pale gold, wayside blossoms near and far, Holding them up to greet the evening star. The freshness of the morning tempts it not, Nor fervid noon, nor the warm wind’s caress; It envies not the royal rose’s lot, Choosing, as background for its loveliness, The dewy shadows and the twilight lone; Making the hush of eventide its own. The blaze and sunshine of the summer hours Know not nor prize the blooms they never see; None of the jubilant and day-lit flowers Hail it as sister, but the drowsy bee And the night-moth, just roused from his repose, They love it better than the fair, proud rose. A type it seems of some shy human hearts, Which palely shrink from joy and shun renown, But when the sun grows colder and departs, And the dim, hovering night shuts darkly down And all the happy things which feed on day Shiver and shrink and hide themselves away— Then, like the primrose with its pale gold star, They open sudden blooms of love and cheer, Giving out fragrance where no others are, Gilding the heavy hours of doubt and fear, Fronting the shadows, till with dawn ends pain, Then folding silently their buds again. |
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