IN June.

Deep in the West a berry-coloured bar

Of sunset gleams; against which one tall fir

Is outlined dark; above which — courier

Of dew and dreams — burns dusk's appointed star.

And flash on flash, as when the elves wage war

In Goblinland, the fireflies bombard

The stillness; and, like spirits, o'er the sward

The glimmering winds bring fragrance from afar.

And now withdrawn into the hill-wood belts

A whippoorwill; while, with attendant states

Of purple and silver, slow the great moon melts

Into the night — to show me where she waits,—

Like some slim moonbeam,— by the old beech-tree,

Who keeps her lips, fresh as a flower, for me.