3.

Last night I slept till midnight Then woke, and far away A cock crowed; lonely and distant Came mournful a watch-dog's bay;

But lonelier, slower the tedious Old clock ticked on towards day. And what a day!— remember The morns of a Summer and Spring,

That bound two lives together? Each morn a wedding ring Of dew and dreams and sparkle, Of flowers and birds a-wing?

Broad morns when I strolled the garden Awaiting one the rose Expected, fresh in its blushes — The Giant of Battle that grows

A head of radiance and fragrance, The champion of the close. Not in vain did I wait, departed Summer, this morning mocks;

‘ Mid the powdery crystal and crimson Of your hollow hollyhocks; Your fairy-bells and poppies, And the bee that in them rocks.

Cool-clad‘ mid the pendulous purple Of the morning-glory vine, By the giant pearls pellucid Of the peonies a-line,

The snapdragons’ and the pansies’ Deep-colored jewel mine. Shall I ever see my mealy, Drunk dusty-millers gay;

My lady-slippers bashful Of butterfly and ray; My gillyflowers as spicy Each as a day of May?

Oh, dear when I think of the handfuls Of little gold coin a-mass, My bachelor's-buttons scatter Over the garden grass;

Of the marigold that boasts its One bit of burning brass; More bitter I feel the winter Tighten to spirit and heart;

And dream of the days remembered As lost — of the past a part; Of the ways we went, all blotted, Tear-blotted on love's chart.

And I see the mill and the diamonds Of foam tossed from its wheel; Red lilies tumbled together, The madcap wind at heel;

And the timid veronicas’ blossoms — Those prayers the woods conceal. The wild-cat gray of the meadows That the ox-eyed daisies dot,

Fawn-eyed and a leopard-yellow, That tangle a tawny spot — As if some panther tired Lay dozing tame and hot.

Ah! back again with the present, With winds that pinch and twist Each leaf in their peevish passion, And whirl wherever they list;

With the morning hoary and nipping, Whose mausolean mist Builds white a tomb for the daylight — A frosty, shaggy fog,

That fits gray wigs on the cedars, And furs with wool each log; Carpets with satin the meadow, And velvets white the bog.

Alone at morn — indifferent; Alone at eve — I sigh; And wait, like the wind complaining, Complain and know not why;

But ailing and longing and hating Because I cannot die. How dull are the sunsets! dreary Cold, hard and harsh and dead!

Far richer were those of August, One stain of wine-dark red — The juice of a mulberry vintage — To the new moon overhead.

But now I sit with the sighing Dead wests of a dying year! Like the fallen leaves and the acorns Am worthless and feel as sear;

For the soul and the body sicken, And the heart's one scalding tear. And I stare from my window! The darkness, Like a bravo, his cloak throws on;

The moon, like a hidden lanthorn, Glitters — or dagger drawn; All my heart cries out beseeching: “Strike here! strike and be gone!”