Late Spring

The mottled moth at eventide Beats glimmering wings against the pane; The slow, sweet lily opens wide, White in the dusk like some dim stain; The garden dreams on every side And breathes faint scents of rain. Among the flowering stocks they stand: A crimson rose is in his hand.

1

Outside her garden. He waits musing.

Herein the dearness of her is; The thirty perfect days of June Made one, in maiden loveliness Were not more sweet to clasp and kiss, With love not more in tune.

Ah me! I think she is too true, Too spiritual for life's rough way; For in her eyes her soul looks new-- Two bluet blossoms, watchet-blue, Are not so pure as they.

So good, so beautiful is she, So soft and white, so fond and fair, Sometimes my heart fears she may be Not long for me, and secretly A sister of the air.

2

Dusk deepens. A whippoorwill calls.

The whippoorwills are calling where The golden west is graying; "'Tis time," they say, "to meet him there-- Why are you still delaying?

"He waits you where the old beech throws Its gnarly shadow over Wood-violet and the bramble rose, Frail maiden-fern and clover.

"Where elder and the sumach creep Above your garden's paling, Whereon at noon the lizards sleep Like lichens on the railing.

"Come! ere the early rising moon's Gold floods the violet valleys; Where mists, like phantom picaroons Anchor their stealthy galleys.

"Come! while the deepening amethyst Of dusk above is falling-- 'Tis time to tryst! 'tis time to tryst!" The whippoorwills are calling.

They call you to these twilight ways With dewy odor dripping-- Ah, girlhood, through the rosy haze Come like a moonbeam slipping.

3

He enters her garden, speaking dreamily:

There is a fading inward of the day, And all the pansy heaven clasps one star; The dwindling acres eastward glimmer gray, While all the world to westward smoulders far.

Now to your glass will you pass for the last time? Pass! humming some ballad, I know,-- Here where I wait it is late and is past time-- Late! and the moments are slow, are slow.

There is a drawing downward of the night; The bridegroom Heaven bends down to kiss the moon; Above, the heights hang silver in her light; Below, the woods stretch purple, deep in June.

There in the dew is it you hiding lawny? You, or a moth in the vines?-- You!--by your hand, where the band twinkles tawny! You!--by your ring, like a glowworm, that shines!

4

She approaches, laughing. She speaks,--

You'd given up hope?