Long vollies of wind and of rain And the rain on the drizzled pane, And the eve falls chill and murk; But on yesterday's eve I know
How a horned moon's thorn-like bow Stabbed rosy thro’ gold and thro’ glow, Like a rich barbaric dirk. Now thick throats of the snapdragons,—
Who hold in their hues cool dawns, Which a healthy yellow paints,— Are filled with a sweet rain fine Of a jaunty, jubilant shine,
A faery vat of rare wine, Which the honey thinly taints. Now dabble the poppies shrink, And the coxcomb and the pink;
While the candytuft's damp crown Droops dribbled, low bowed i’ the wet; And long spikes o’ the mignonette Little musk-sacks open set,
Which the dripping o’ dew drags down. Stretched taunt on the blades of grass, Like a gossamer-fibered glass, Which the garden-spider spun,
The web, where the round rain clings In its middle sagging, swings;— A hammock for Elfin things When the stars succeed the sun.
And mark, where the pale gourd grows Up high as the clambering rose, How that tiger-moth is pressed To the wide leaf's underside.—
And I know where the red wasps hide, And the wild bees,— who defied The first strong gusts,— distressed. Yet I feel that the gray will blow
Aside for an afterglow; And a breeze on a sudden toss Drenched boughs to a pattering show'r Athwart the red dusk in a glow'r,
Big drops heard hard on each flow'r On the grass and the flowering moss. And then for a minute, may be,— A pearl — hollow worn — of the sea,—
A glimmer of moon will smile; Cool stars rinsed clean on the dusk, A freshness of gathering musk O'er the showery lawns, as brusk
As spice from an Indian isle.
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