THE TRYST.

Had fallen a fragrant shower;

The leaves were dripping yet;

Each fern and rain-weighed flower

Around were gleaming wet;

On ev'ry bosky bower

A million gems were set.

The dust's moist odors sifted

Cool with the summer rain,

Mixed with the musk that drifted

From orchard and from plain;—

Her garden's fence white lifted

Its length along the lane.

The moon the clouds had shattered

In curdled peaks of pearl;

The honeysuckle scattered

Warm odors from each curl,

Where the white moonlight, flattered,

Hung molten‘ round a girl.

Then grew the night completer

With light and cloud and air;

Aromas sweet blew sweeter,

Sweet flowers fair, more fair;

Fleet feet and fast grew fleeter

Thro’ that fair sorceress there.