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The breezes brought dejected lutes, |
And bathed them in the glee; |
The East put out a single flag, |
And signed the fete away. |
XII. |
PSALM OF THE DAY. |
A something in a summer's day, |
As slow her flambeaux burn away, |
Which solemnizes me. |
A something in a summer's noon, -- |
An azure depth, a wordless tune, |
Transcending ecstasy. |
And still within a summer's night |
A something so transporting bright, |
I clap my hands to see; |
Then veil my too inspecting face, |
Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace |
Flutter too far for me. |
The wizard-fingers never rest, |
The purple brook within the breast |
Still chafes its narrow bed; |
Still rears the East her amber flag, |
Guides still the sun along the crag |
His caravan of red, |
Like flowers that heard the tale of dews, |
But never deemed the dripping prize |
Awaited their low brows; |
Or bees, that thought the summer's name |
Some rumor of delirium |
No summer could for them; |
Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred |
By tropic hint, -- some travelled bird |
Imported to the wood; |
Or wind's bright signal to the ear, |
Making that homely and severe, |
Contented, known, before |
The heaven unexpected came, |
To lives that thought their worshipping |
A too presumptuous psalm. |
XIII. |
THE SEA OF SUNSET. |
This is the land the sunset washes, |
These are the banks of the Yellow Sea; |
Where it rose, or whither it rushes, |
These are the western mystery! |
Night after night her purple traffic |
Strews the landing with opal bales; |
Merchantmen poise upon horizons, |
Dip, and vanish with fairy sails. |
XIV. |
PURPLE CLOVER. |
There is a flower that bees prefer, |
And butterflies desire; |
To gain the purple democrat |
The humming-birds aspire. |
And whatsoever insect pass, |
A honey bears away |
Proportioned to his several dearth |
And her capacity. |
Her face is rounder than the moon, |
And ruddier than the gown |
Of orchis in the pasture, |
Or rhododendron worn. |
She doth not wait for June; |
Before the world is green |
Her sturdy little countenance |
Against the wind is seen, |
Contending with the grass, |
Near kinsman to herself, |
For privilege of sod and sun, |
Sweet litigants for life. |
And when the hills are full, |
And newer fashions blow, |
Doth not retract a single spice |
For pang of jealousy. |