Xvii

She, pensively, standing among the flowers:

Soft through the trees the night wind sighs, And swoons and dies. Above, the stars hang wanly white; Here, through the dark, A drizzled gold, the fireflies Rain mimic stars in spark on spark.-- ’Tis time to part, to say good night. Good night.

From fern to flower the night-moths cross At drowsy loss. The moon drifts, veiled, through clouds of white; And pearly pale, In silvery blurs, through beds of moss, Their tiny moons the glow-worms trail.-- ’Tis time to part, to say good night. Good night.