A GRAY DAY.

Long vollies of wind and of rain And the rain on the drizzled pane, And the eve falls chill and murk; But on yesterday's eve I know How a horned moon's thorn-like bow Stabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow, Like a rich barbaric dirk.

Now thick throats of the snapdragons,— Who hold in their hues cool dawns, Which a healthy yellow paints,— Are filled with a sweet rain fine Of a jaunty, jubilant shine, A faery vat of rare wine, Which the honey thinly taints.

Now dabble the poppies shrink, And the coxcomb and the pink; While the candytuft's damp crown Droops dribbled, low bowed i' the wet; And long spikes o' the mignonette Little musk-sacks open set, Which the dripping o' dew drags down.

Stretched taunt on the blades of grass, Like a gossamer-fibered glass, Which the garden-spider spun, The web, where the round rain clings In its middle sagging, swings;— A hammock for Elfin things When the stars succeed the sun.

And mark, where the pale gourd grows Up high as the clambering rose, How that tiger-moth is pressed To the wide leaf's underside.— And I know where the red wasps hide, And the wild bees,—who defied The first strong gusts,—distressed.

Yet I feel that the gray will blow Aside for an afterglow; And a breeze on a sudden toss Drenched boughs to a pattering show'r Athwart the red dusk in a glow'r, Big drops heard hard on each flow'r On the grass and the flowering moss.

And then for a minute, may be,— A pearl—hollow worn—of the sea,— A glimmer of moon will smile; Cool stars rinsed clean on the dusk, A freshness of gathering musk O'er the showery lawns, as brusk As spice from an Indian isle.