They meet. He speaks.

How fresh the purple clover Smells in its veil of rain! And where the leaves brim over How fragrant is the lane! See, how the sodden acres, Forlorn of all their rakers, Their hay and harvest makers, Look green as spring again.

Drops from the trumpet flowers Rain on us as we pass; And every zephyr showers, From tilted leaf or grass, Clear beads of moisture, seeming Pale, pointed emeralds gleaming; Where, through the green boughs streaming, The daylight strikes like glass.

How dewy, clean and fragrant Look now the green and gold!— And breezes trailing vagrant Spill all the spice they hold. The west begins to glimmer; And shadows, stretching slimmer, Crouch on the ways; and dimmer Grow field and forest old.

Beyond those rainy reaches Of woodland, far and lone, A whippoorwill beseeches; And now an owl's vague moan Strikes faint upon the hearing.— These say the dusk is nearing. And, see, the heavens clearing Take on a tender tone.

How feebly chirps the cricket! How thin the tree-toads cry! Blurred in the wild-rose thicket Gleams wet the firefly.— This way toward home is nearest; Of weeds and briars clearest.... We'll meet to-morrow, dearest; Till then, dear heart, good-bye.