Iii

Below the sunset’s range of rose, Below the heaven’s bending blue, Down woodways where the balsam blows, And milkweed tufts hang, gray of hue, A Jersey heifer stops and lows-- The cows come home by one, by two.

There is no star yet: but the smell Of hay and pennyroyal mix With herb-aromas of the dell; And the root-hidden cricket clicks: Among the ironweeds a bell Clangs near the rail-fenced clover-ricks.

She waits upon the slope beside The windlassed well the plum-trees shade, The well-curb that the goose-plums hide; Her light hand on the bucket laid, Unbonneted she waits, glad-eyed, Her dress as simple as her braid.

She sees fawn-colored backs among The sumacs now; a tossing horn; A clashing bell of brass that rung: Long shadows lean upon the corn, And all the day dies scarlet-stung, The cloud in it a rosy thorn.

Below the pleasant moon, that tips The tree-tops of the hillside, fly The evening bats; the twilight slips Some fireflies like spangles by; She meets him, and their happy lips Touch; and one star leaps in the sky.

He takes her bucket, and they speak Of married hopes while in the grass The plum lies glowing as her cheek; The patient cows look back or pass; And in the west one golden streak Burns like a great cathedral glass.