EVENING ON THE POTOMAC.

The fervid breath of our flushed Southern May Is sweet upon the city's throat and lips, As a lover's whose tired arm slips Listlessly over the shoulder of a queen.

Far away The river melts in the unseen. Oh, beautiful Girl-City, how she dips Her feet in the stream With a touch that is half a kiss and half a dream! Her face is very fair, With flowers for smiles and sunlight in her hair.

My westland flower-town, how serene she is! Here on this hill from which I look at her, All is still as if a worshipper Left at some shrine his offering.

Soft winds kiss My cheek with a slow lingering. A luring whisper where the laurels stir Wiles my heart back to woodland-ward again.

But lo, Across the sky the sunset couriers run, And I remain To watch the imperial pageant of the Sun Mock me, an impotent Cortez here below, With splendors of its vaster Mexico.

O Eldorado of the templed clouds! O golden city of the western sky! Not like the Spaniard would I storm thy gates; Not like the babe stretch chubby hands and cry

To have thee for a toy; but far from crowds, Like my Faun brother in the ferny glen, Peer from the wood's edge while thy glory waits, And in the darkening thickets plunge again.