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.