I

THE purple shadows dreamingly

Upon the dreaming waters lie,

And darken with the darkening sky.

Calmly across the lake we float,

I and thou, my little boat—

The lake with its grey mist-capote.

We lost the moon an hour ago:

We saw it dip, and downward go,

Whilst all the west was still aglow.

But in those blue depths moon-forsaken

A moon-like star its place hath taken;

And one by one the rest awaken.

II

With noiseless paddle dip we glide

Along the bay's dark-fringËd side,

Then out—amidst the waters wide!

With us there floated here last night

Wild threatening waves with foam-caps white,

But these have now spent all their might.

We knew they would not injure us,

Those tossing waves, so boisterous—

And where is now their fret and fuss?

Only a ripple wrinkleth now

The summer lake—and plashes low

Against the boat, in fitful flow.

III

Still callest thou—thou Whip-poor-will!

When dipped the moon behind the hill

I heard thee, and I hear thee still.

But mingled with thy plaintive cry

A wilder sound comes ebbing by,

Out of the pine-woods, solemnly.

It is the blinking owls that sit

Up in the trees, and wait a-bit

Ere yet along the shores they flit.

And hark, again! It comes anew—

Piercing the dark pine-forest through,

With its long too-hoo, too-hoo!

IV

Swifter and swifter, on we go;

For though the breeze but feigns to blow,

Its kisses catch us, soft and low.

But with us now, and side by side,

Striving awhile for place of pride,

A silent, dusky form doth glide.

Though swift and light the birch canoe,

It cannot take the palm from you,

My little boat, so trim and true.

"Indian! where away to-night?"

"Homeward I wend: yon beacon-light

Shines out for me—good-night!"—"Good-night!"

V

Shoreward again we glide—and go

Where the sumach shadows flow

Across the purple calm below.

There, the far-winding creeks among,

The frogs keep up, the summer long,

The murmurs of their soft night-song—

A song most soft and musical,

Like the dulled voice of distant Fall,

Or winds that through the pine-tops call.

And where the dusky swamp lies dreaming,

Shines the fire-flies' fitful gleaming—

Through the cedars—dancing, streaming!

VI

Who is it hideth up in a tree

Where all but the bats asleep should be,

And with his whistling mocketh me?

Such quaint, quick pipings—two-and-two:

Half a whistle, half a coo—

Ah, Mister Tree-Frog! gare-À-vous!

The owls on noiseless wing gloom by,—

Beware, lest one a glimpse espy

Of your grey coat and jewelled eye!

And so, good-night!—We glide anew

Where shows the lake its softest blue

With mirror'd star-points sparkling through.

VII

The lights upon the distant shore,

That shone so redly, shine no more:

The Indian-fisher's toil is o'er.

Already in the eastern skies,

Where up and up new stars arise,

A pearly lustre softly lies.

And time it were for us to take

Our homeward course across the lake,

Ere yet the tell-tale morn awake.

O Night—where old shape-hauntings dwell,

Though now, calm-eyed:—for thy soft spell,

O soothing Night! I thank thee well.