Iv

There where they part the porch's steps are strewn With wind-dropped petals of the purple vine; Athwart the porch the shadow of a pine Cleaves the white moonlight; and, like some calm rune Heaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon; And now a meteor draws a lilac line Across the welkin, as if God would sign The perfect poem of this night of June. The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree, Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grass Like crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass; And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame, The dewdrop trembles in the peony, As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name.