DUSK

Corn-colored clouds upon a sky of gold,

And‘ mid their sheaves,— where, like a daisy-bloom

Left by the reapers to the gathering gloom,

The star of twilight glows,— as Ruth,‘ tis told,

Dreamed homesick‘ mid the harvest fields of old,

The Dusk goes gleaning color and perfume

From Bible slopes of heaven, that illume

Her pensive beauty deep in shadows stoled.

Hushed is the forest; and blue vale and hill

Are still, save for the brooklet, sleepily

Stumbling the stone with one foam-fluttering foot:

Save for the note of one far whippoorwill,

And in my heart her name,— like some sweet bee

Within a rose,— blowing a faery flute.