This was her home; one mossy gable thrust Above the cedars and the locust trees: This was her home, whose beauty now is dust, A lonely memory for melodies The wild birds sing, the wild birds and the bees. Here every evening is a prayer: no boast Or ruin of sunset makes the wan world wroth; Here, through the twilight, like a pale flower's ghost, A drowsy flutter, flies the tiger-moth; And dusk spreads darkness like a dewy cloth. In vagabond velvet, on the placid day, A stain of crimson, lolls the butterfly; The south wind sows with ripple and with ray The pleasant waters; and the gentle sky Looks on the homestead like a quiet eye. Their melancholy quaver, lone and low, When day is done, the gray tree-toads repeat: The whippoorwills, far in the afterglow, Complain to silence: and the lightnings beat, In one still cloud, glimmers of golden heat. He comes not yet: not till the dusk is dead, And all the western glow is far withdrawn; Not till, -- a sleepy mouth love's kiss makes red, -- The baby bud opes in a rosy yawn, Breathing sweet guesses at the dreamed-of dawn. When in the shadows, like a rain of gold, The fireflies stream steadily; and bright Along the moss the glowworm, as of old, A crawling sparkle -- like a crooked light In smoldering vellum -- scrawls a square of night, -- Then will he come; and she will lean to him, -- She, -- the sweet phantom, -- memory of that place, -- Between the starlight and his eyes; so dim With suave control and soul-compelling grace, He cannot help but speak her, face to face. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REMEMBER by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE LOVE OF GOD by ELIZA SCUDDER ADONAIS; AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE JESTER'S SERMON by GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY TEMPEST by ANITA CONCHITA ALLMON ON HOMER'S BIRTHPLACE by ANTIPATER OF SIDON |