Her steps fall sweet as summer rain...

Her steps fall sweet as summer rain,

And lull to dream the thoughts of pain,—

O glowing grass, O violet skyey,

Ye hint of something of fairer grain!

She outruns sympathy of crowds;

Her dwelling is above the clouds;

She stoops to kiss the rose to crimson —

Her face no featureless mask enshrouds.

Her chatelaine's of amber fine;

No hue of coming autumn's wine

But she outpours from tawny beaker,

And fills each grape of the swelling vine.