I

O tranquil meadows, grassy Tantramar, Wide marshes ever washed in clearest air, Whether beneath the sole and spectral star The dear severity of dawn you wear, Or whether in the joy of ample day And speechless ecstasy of growing June You lie and dream the long blue hours away Till nightfall comes too soon, Or whether, naked to the unstarred night, You strike with wondering awe my inward sight,--