 | The silver bridge and other poems |  |
108
FIRE-FLIES.
Ere yet with lingering footsteps comes the dark,
In the cool chalice of a twilight bloom
Or under some low grass-tuft's canopy,
The dainty fire-fly makes her tiring-room,
And trims her lamp, and robes her royally,
With cunning which no mortal eye may mark,
For night's grand carnival, ere long to be,
With joy and beauty, music and perfume.
In the cool chalice of a twilight bloom
Or under some low grass-tuft's canopy,
The dainty fire-fly makes her tiring-room,
And trims her lamp, and robes her royally,
With cunning which no mortal eye may mark,
For night's grand carnival, ere long to be,
With joy and beauty, music and perfume.
Oh, could we walk with noiseless elfin feet
The rare seclusion where the shining queen
Sits listening to the lovelorn cricket's tune—
That bashful troubadour who sings unseen—
Making her veiled green bower bright as noon
With a rich golden lustre mild and sweet,
Yet borrowed neither from the sun nor moon
Nor any fire, nor ray of star serene.
The rare seclusion where the shining queen
Sits listening to the lovelorn cricket's tune—
That bashful troubadour who sings unseen—
Making her veiled green bower bright as noon
With a rich golden lustre mild and sweet,
Yet borrowed neither from the sun nor moon
Nor any fire, nor ray of star serene.
No legend-lover of the lands afar,
No story-teller near an Eastern throne,
Who, uttering all his wildest fancies, weaves
Romaunts and magic tales till night is flown,
So marvellous a heroine conceives
As this, who asks no aid of lamp or star,
But lights her odorous chamber in the leaves
With a clear conscious radiance all her own!
No story-teller near an Eastern throne,
Who, uttering all his wildest fancies, weaves
Romaunts and magic tales till night is flown,
109
As this, who asks no aid of lamp or star,
But lights her odorous chamber in the leaves
With a clear conscious radiance all her own!
When headlong beetles boom across the night
And high the flowering mimosa tree
Holds its thin flames against the growing dark,
And heavy dew-drops gather silently—
Up from the grass her mellow opal-spark,
—A living gem, instinct with joy and light,
Floats tremulous, like a fairy's tiny bark
Bearing unearthly radiance out at sea.
And high the flowering mimosa tree
Holds its thin flames against the growing dark,
And heavy dew-drops gather silently—
Up from the grass her mellow opal-spark,
—A living gem, instinct with joy and light,
Floats tremulous, like a fairy's tiny bark
Bearing unearthly radiance out at sea.
And then a thousand glitter into view,
Crowding in fleets, or gathering one by one—
They soar and sink and circle up and down,
And follow where the airy currents run;
But when the eager day puts on her crown,
Lo, with the darkness they have faded too—
Stranded like storm-wrecked ships all bruised and brown—
Their light extinguished and their voyage done.
Crowding in fleets, or gathering one by one—
They soar and sink and circle up and down,
And follow where the airy currents run;
But when the eager day puts on her crown,
Lo, with the darkness they have faded too—
Stranded like storm-wrecked ships all bruised and brown—
Their light extinguished and their voyage done.
| The silver bridge and other poems | |