Category: Poetry
_The mottled moth at eventide Beats glimmering wings against the pane; The slow, sweet lily opens wide, White in the dusk like some dim stain; The garden dreams on every side And breathes faint scents of rain. Among the flowering stocks they stand: A crimson rose is in his hand._
_Heat lightning flickers in one cloud, As in a flow'r a firefly; Some rain-drops, that the rose-bush bowed, Jar through the leaves and dimly lie; Among the trees, now low, now l...
1. PART I_The mottled moth at eventide Beats glimmering wings against the pane; The slow, sweet lily opens wide, White in the dusk like some dim stain; The garden dreams on every side An...
2. PART II_The cricket in the rose-bush hedge Sings by the vine-entangled gate; The slim moon slants a timid edge Of pearl through one low cloud of slate; Around dark door and window-ledg...
5. PART VThe face that I said farewell to, Pillowed a flower on flowers, Comes back with its eyes to tell to My soul what its lips would spell too-- Comes back to me at hours!--
4. PART IV'Though the dog-tooth violet come With April showers, And the wild-bees' music hum About the flowers, We shall never wend as when Love laughed leading us from men Over violet va...