Excerpt
PART I LATE SPRING The mottled moth at eventideBeats glimmering wings against the pane;The slow, sweet lily opens wide,White in the dusk like some dim stain;The garden dreams on every sideAnd breathes faint scents of rain.Among the flowering stocks they stand:A crimson rose is in his hand. 1 Outside her garden. He waits musing. Herein the dearness of her is;The thirty perfect days of JuneMade one, in maiden lovelinessWere not more sweet to clasp and kiss,With love not more in tune. Ah me! I think she is too true,Too spiritual for life's rough way;For in her eyes her soul looks new—Two bluet blossoms, watchet-blue,Are not so pure as they. So good, so beautiful is she,So soft and white, so fond and fair,Sometimes my heart fears she may beNot long for me, and secretlyA sister of the air. 2 Dusk deepens. A whippoorwill calls. The whippoorwills are calling whereThe golden west is graying;"'Tis time," they say, "to meet him there—Why are you still delaying? "He waits you where the old beech throwsIts gnarly shadow overWood-violet and the bramble rose,Frail maiden-fern and clover. "Where elder and the sumach creepAbove your garden's paling,Whereon at noon the lizards sleepLike lichens on the railing. "Come! ere the early rising moon'sGold floods the violet valleys;Where mists, like phantom picaroonsAnchor their stealthy galleys. "Come! while the deepening amethystOf dusk above is falling—'Tis time to tryst! 'tis time to tryst!"The whippoorwills are calling. They call you to these twilight waysWith dewy odor dripping—Ah, girlhood, through the rosy hazeCome like a moonbeam slipping. 3 He enters her garden, speaking dreamily: There is a fading inward of the day,And all the pansy heaven clasps one star;The dwindling acres eastward glimmer gray,While all the world to westward smoulders far. Now to your glass will you pass for the last time?Pass! humming some ballad, I know,—Here where I wait it is late and is past time—Late! and the moments are slow, are slow. There is a drawing downward of the night;The bridegroom Heaven bends down to kiss the moon;Above, the heights hang silver in her light;Below, the woods stretch purple, deep in June. There in the dew is it you hiding lawny?You, or a moth in the vines?—You!—by your hand, where the band twinkles tawny!You!—by your ring, like a glowworm, that shines! 4 She approaches, laughing. She speaks,— You'd given up hope? HE Believe me. SHE Why, is your love so poor? HE I knew you'd not deceive me. SHE As many a girl before,—Ah, dear, you will forgive me? HE Say no more, sweet, say no more! SHE Love trusts, and that's enough, my dear.Trust wins to trust; whereof, my dear,Love holds to love; and love, my dear,Is—well, that's all my lore. HE Come, pay me or I'll scold you.—Give me the kiss you owe.—You fly when I'd enfold you? SHE No! no! I say! now, no!How often have I told you,You must not treat me so...?