This was her home; one mossy gable thrust Above the cedars and the locust trees: This was her home, whose beauty now is dust, A lonely memory for melodies
The wild birds sing, the wild birds and the bees. Here every evening is a prayer: no boast Or ruin of sunset makes the wan world wroth; Here, through the twilight, like a pale flower's ghost,
A drowsy flutter, flies the tiger-moth; And dusk spreads darkness like a dewy cloth. In vagabond velvet, on the placid day, A stain of crimson, lolls the butterfly;
The south wind sows with ripple and with ray The pleasant waters; and the gentle sky Looks on the homestead like a quiet eye. Their melancholy quaver, lone and low,
When day is done, the gray tree-toads repeat: The whippoorwills, far in the afterglow, Complain to silence: and the lightnings beat, In one still cloud, glimmers of golden heat.
He comes not yet: not till the dusk is dead, And all the western glow is far withdrawn; Not till,— a sleepy mouth love's kiss makes red,— The baby bud opes in a rosy yawn,
Breathing sweet guesses at the dreamed-of dawn. When in the shadows, like a rain of gold, The fireflies stream steadily; and bright Along the moss the glowworm, as of old,
A crawling sparkle — like a crooked light In smoldering vellum — scrawls a square of night,— Then will he come; and she will lean to him,— She,— the sweet phantom,— memory of that place,—
Between the starlight and his eyes; so dim With suave control and soul-compelling grace, He cannot help but speak her, face to face.
Cookies on Poetry Cove