 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
208
NIGHT MAGIC.
In cobalt raiment, glinting
With stars, beneath the pines
Night walks, the forest printing
With moonbeam-jeweled lines.
With stars, beneath the pines
Night walks, the forest printing
With moonbeam-jeweled lines.
Within her footsteps follow
The dews and glowworm-gleams,
And out of hill and hollow
The murmur of hushed streams.
The dews and glowworm-gleams,
And out of hill and hollow
The murmur of hushed streams.
The wildflowers there that dapple
The road and kiss her feet,
Lean over—rose, May-apple—
And whisper something sweet.
The road and kiss her feet,
Lean over—rose, May-apple—
And whisper something sweet.
The wild bird, drowsy-dreaming,
For her indulgence begs,
And chants a song, in seeming,
That echoes in its eggs.
For her indulgence begs,
And chants a song, in seeming,
That echoes in its eggs.
The bud, that nods unfolded,
That holds its flower in mind,
The mushroom, still unmolded,
Crowd her dim steps behind.
That holds its flower in mind,
The mushroom, still unmolded,
Crowd her dim steps behind.
Agog to see who follow,
In fernseed-twinkling shoes—
The Fays, of hill and hollow,
Who bring the flowers news
In fernseed-twinkling shoes—
The Fays, of hill and hollow,
Who bring the flowers news
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Of Elfland and its towers,
Where nothing ever dies,
That knows these are not flowers,
But Fairies in disguise.
Where nothing ever dies,
That knows these are not flowers,
But Fairies in disguise.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |