He hums.

There is a fading inward of the day, And all the pansy sunset hugs one star; To eastward dwindling all the land is gray, While barley meadows westward smoulder far.

Now to your glass will you pass For the last time? Pass, Humming that ballad we know?— Here while I wait it is late And is past time— Late, And love's hours they go, they go.

There is a drawing downward of the night; The wedded Heaven wends married to the Moon; Above, the heights hang golden in her light, Below, the woods bathe dewy in the June.

There through the dew is it you Coming lawny? You, Or a moth in the vines? You!—at your throat I may note Twinkling tawny, Note, A glow-worm, your brooch that shines.