JULY 3, 1887.

Fleet swallows soared and darted

‘ Neath empty vaults of blue;

Thick leaves close clung or parted

To let the sunlight through;

Each wild rose, honey-hearted,

Bowed full of living dew.

Down deep, fair fields of Heaven,

Beat wafts of air and balm,

From southmost islands driven

And continents of calm;

Bland winds by which were given

Hid hints of rustling palm.

High birds soared high to hover;

Thick leaves close clung to slip;

Wild rose and snowy clover

Were warm for winds to dip,

And one ungentle lover,

A bee with robber lip.

Dart on, O buoyant swallow!

Kiss leaves and willing rose!

Whose musk the sly winds follow,

And bee that booming goes;—

But in this quiet hollow

I'll walk, which no one knows.

None save the moon that shineth

At night through rifted trees;

The lonely flower that twineth

Frail blooms that no one sees;

The whippoorwill that pineth;

The sad, sweet-swaying breeze;

The lone white stars that glitter;

The stream's complaining wave;

Gray bats that dodge and flitter;

Black crickets hid that rave;

And me whose life is bitter,

And one white head stone grave.