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 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
112
SABBATH
I
All is repose,Where swaths of summer, laid in hay-sweet rows,
Make musk the fields through which the pathway goes
Unto a woodland-wall where cedars dream,
And roses shred their petals, one by one:
Where, slumbrous silver, leaps a little stream,
Making a murmurous glimmer in the sun,
And on a log, a slender streak of gray
Against the noon, a small green heron stands,
Moveless as meditation.—Far away
Dreams seem to camp among the meadow-lands.—
Rest rules the day.
II
Night comes to woo,Mid heaps of clovered fragrance, cool with dew,
And fields of flowers a gateway leads into,
Under the shadow of great chestnut trees
Where moonlight waits, a presence, that awakes
113
And shakes the attar from the wildrose brakes:
And now the darkness opens many an eye
Of firefly gold; and gowns herself in white,
Far-following veils of mist; and with a sigh,
Voluptuous-drawn, resigns her to delight.—
Love rules the night.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |