By The Trysting-Beech

Deep in the west a berry-colored bar Of sunset gleams; against which one tall fir Stands outlined dark; above which--courier Of dew and dreams--burns dusk’s appointed star. And flash on flash, as when the elves wage war In Goblinland, the fireflies bombard The silence; and, like spirits, o’er the sward The twilight winds bring fragrance from afar. And now, withdrawn into the hill-wood belts, A whippoorwill; while, with attendant states Of pearl and silver, slow the great moon melts Into the night--to show me where she waits,-- Like some slim moonbeam,--by the old beech-tree, Who keeps her lips, fresh as a flower, for me.