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ONE AFTERNOON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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933

ONE AFTERNOON

Below, cool grasses: over us
The maples waver tremulous.
A slender overture above,
Low breathing as a sigh of love
At first, then gradually strong
And stronger: 'tis the locust's song,
Swoln midway to a pæan of glee,
And lost in silence dwindlingly.
Not utter silence; nay, for hid
In ghosts of it, the katydid
Chirrs a diluted echo of
The loveless song he makes us love.
The low boughs are drugged heavily
With shade; the poem you read to me
Is not more gracious than the trill
Of birds that twitter as they will.

934

Half consciously, with upturned eyes,
I hear your voice—I see the skies,
Where, o'er bright rifts, the swallows glance
Like glad thoughts o'er a countenance;
And voices near and far are blent
Like sweet chords of some instrument
Awakened by the trembling touch
Of hands that love it overmuch.
Dear heart, let be the book a while!
I want your face—I want your smile!
Tell me how gladder now are they
Who look on us from Heaven to-day.