Iv

Where the horsemint shoots through the grasses,--high On the root-thick rivage that roofs,--a dry Gray knob that bristles with pink, the sigh Of crickets is heard; and the leaves’ deep bosoms Are pierced, at dusk, with a bird’s quick cry, A passing bird that twitters by: And the frogs’ grave antiphons rise and die; And here, to drink, come the wild opossums: And here, to-night, will you and I Linger and lean while the great moon blossoms.