THE FARMSTEAD.

Yes, a lovely homestead; there

In the Spring your lilacs blew

Plenteous perfume everywhere;

There your gladiolas grew,

Parallels of scarlet glare.

And the moon-hued primrose cool,

Satin-soft and redolent;

Honey-suckles beautiful,

Balming all the air with scent;

Roses red or white as wool.

Roses glorious and lush,

Rich in tender-tinted dyes,

Like a gay, tempestuous rush

Of unnumbered butterflies

Lighting on each bending bush.

Here the fire-bush and the box,

And the wayward violets;

Clumps of star-enameled phlox,

And the myriad flowery jets

Of the twilight four-o'clocks.

Ah, the beauty of the place

When the June made one great rose

Full of musk and mellow grace,

In the garden's humming close,

Of her comely mother face!

Bubble-like the hollyhocks

Budded, burst and flaunted wide

Gypsy beauty from their stocks.

Morning-glories, bubble-dyed,

Swung in honey-hearted flocks.

Tawny tiger-lilies flung

Doublets slashed with crimson on;

Graceful slave-girls fair and young,

Like Circassians, in the sun

Alabaster lilies swung.

Ah, the droning of the bee

In his dusty pantaloons

Tumbling in the fleurs-de-lis;

In the drowsy afternoons

Dreaming in the pink sweet-pea.

Ah, the moaning wild-wood dove

With its throat of amethyst

Ruffled like a shining cove,

Which a wind to pearl hath kissed,

Moaning, moaning of its love.

And the insects’ gossip thin,

From the summer hotness hid,

In the leafy shadows green,

Then at eve the katydid

With its hard, unvaried din.

Often from the whispering hills

Lorn within the golden dusk,—

Gold with gold of daffodils,—

Thrilled into the garden's musk

The wild wail of whippoorwills.

From the purple tangled trees,

Like the white, full heart of night,

Solemn with majestic peace,

Swam the big moon veined with light,

Like some gorgeous golden fleece.

You were there with me, and you,

In the magic of the hour,

Almost swore that you could view

Beading on each blade and flower

Moony blisters of the dew.

And each Fairy of our home —

Fire-fly — its torch then lit

In the honey-scented gloam,

Dashing down the dusk with it,

Like an instant flaming foam.

And we heard the calling, calling,

Of the wild owl in the brake

Where the trumpet-vine hung crawling;

Down the ledge into the lake

Heard the sighing streamlet falling.

Then we wandered to the creek,

Where the water-lilies growing,

Like fair maidens white and weak,—

Naked in the brooklet's flowing,—

Stooped to bathe a bashful cheek.

And the moonbeams rippling golden

Fell in saint-sweet aureoles

On chaste bosoms half beholden,

Till, meseemed, the dainty souls

Of pale moon-fays, there enfolden

In such beauty, dimly fainted

Baby-cribbed within each bud,

Till a night wind piney-tainted,

Swooning over field and flood,

Rocked them to a slumber sainted.

Then a low, melodious bell

Of some sleeping heifer tinkled

In some berry-briered dell,

As her satin dewlap wrinkled

With the cud that made it swell.

And returning home we heard

In a beech tree at the gate

Some brown, dream-behaunted bird

Singing of its absent mate,

Of the mate that never heard.

And you see, now I am gray,

Why within the old, old place,

With such memories I stay,

Fancy out your absent face

Long since passed away.

You were mine — yes, still are mine:

And this frosty memory

Reels about you as with wine

Warmed into wild eyes which see

All of you that is divine.

Yes, I love it, and have grown

Melancholy in that love

And that memory alone

Of perfection such, whereof

You could sanctify a stone.

And where'er your poppies swing —

There we walk,— as if a bee

Fanned them with his puny wing,—

Down your garden shadowy

In the hush the evenings bring.