On the tremulous coppice, From her plenteous hair, Large golden-rayed poppies Of moon-litten air
The Night hath flung there. In the fern-favored hollow The fire-flies fleet Uncertainly follow
Pale phantoms of heat, Druid shadows that meet. Hidden flowers are fragrant; The night hazes furl
O'er the solitudes vagrant In purple and pearl, Sway-swinging and curl. From moss-cushioned valley
Where the red sunlight fails, Rocks where musically The hollow spring wails, And the limber fern trails,
With a ripple and twinkle Of luminous arms, Of voices that tinkle, And feet that are storms
Of chaste, naked charms, Like echoes that revel On hills, where the brier Vaults roofs of dishevel
And green, greedy fire, They come as a choir. At the root of the mountain Where the dim forest lies,
By the spar-spouting fountain Where the low lily dies, With their star-stinging eyes. They gather sweet singing
In voices that seem Faint ringing and clinging In dreams that we dream, In visions that gleam.
Sweet lisping of kisses, Dry rustle of hair; A footfall that hisses Like a leaf in the air
When the brown boughs are bare. The music that scatters From love-litten eyes; The music that flatters
In words and low sighs, In laughter that dies: “Come hither, come hither, In the million-eyed night,
Ere the moon-flowers wither And the harvester white, Morning reaps them with light. “Come hither, where singing
Is pleasant as tears, Or dead kisses, clinging To the murdering years, In memory's ears.
“Come hither where kisses Are waiting for you, For lips and long tresses, As for wild flowers blue
The moon-heated dew. “Come hither from coppice And violet dale, The mountain whose top is
In vapors that sail With pearly hail pale. “Why tarry? come hither While the molten moon beams,
Ere the golden spark wither Of the glow-worm that gleams Like a star in still streams!”
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