Shall we forget how, in our day,

      The Sabine fields about us lay

      In amaranth and asphodel,

      And bubbling, cold Bandusian well,

      Fair Pyrrhas haunting every way?

      In dells of forest faun and fay,

      Moss-lounged within the fountain's spray,

      How drained we wines too rare to tell,

      Shall we forget?

      The fine Falernian or the ray

      Of fiery Cæcuban, while gay

      We heard Bacchantes shout and yell,

      Filled full of Bacchus, and so fell

      To dreaming of some Lydia;

      Shall we forget?

      If we forget in after years,

      My comrade, all the hopes and fears

      That hovered all our walks around

      When ent'ring on that mystic ground

      Of ghostly legends, where one hears

      By bandit towers the chase that nears

      Thro' cracking woods, the oaths and cheers

      Of demon huntsman, horn and hound;

      If we forget.

      Lenora's lover and her tears,

      Fierce Wallenstein, satanic sneers

      Of the red devil Goethe bound, —

      Why then, forsooth, they soon are found

      In burly stoops of German beers,

      If we forget!

      … Fresh from bathing in orient fountains,

      In wells of rock water and snow,

      Comes the Dawn with her pearl-brimming fingers

      O'er the thyme and the pines of yon mountain;

      Where she steps young blossoms fresh blow…

      And sweet as the star-beams in fountains,

      And soft as the fall of the dew,

      Wet as the hues of the rain-arch,

      To me was the Dawn when on mountains

      Pearl-capped o'er the hyaline blue,

      Saint-fair and pure thro' the blue,

      Her spirit in dimples comes dancing,

      In dimples of light and of fire,

      Planting her footprints in roses

      On the floss of the snow-drifts, while glancing

      Large on her brow is her tire,

      Gemmed with the morning-star's fire.

      But sweet as the incense from altars,

      And warm as the light on a cloud,

      Sad as the wail of bleak woodlands,

      To me was the Night when she falters

      In the sorrowful folds of her shroud,

      In the far-blowing black of her shroud,

      O'er the flower-strewn bier of her lover,

      The Day lying faded and fair

      In the red-curtained chambers of air.

      When disheveled I've seen her uncover

      Her gold-girdled raven of hair —

      All hooped with the gold of the even —

      And for this sad burial prepare,

      The spirit of Night in the heaven

      To me was most wondrously fair,

      So fair that I wished it were given

      To die in the rays of her hair,

      Die wrapped in her gold-girdled hair.

      Once more the June with her great moon

      Poured harvest o'er the golden fields;

      Once more her days in hot, bright shields

      She bore from morn to drooping noon.

      A rhymer, sick of work and rhyme,

      Disheartened by a poor success,

      I sought the woods to loll the time

      In one long month of quietness.

      It was the time when one will thrill

      For indolent fields, serener skies;

      For Nature's softening subtleties

      Of higher cloud and gullied rill.

      When crumpled poppies strew the halls

      Of all the East, where mounts the Dawn,

      And in the eve the skyey lawn

      Gold kingcups heap 'neath Night's gray walls.

      The silver peace of distant wolds,

      Of far-seen lakes a glimmering dance,

      Fresh green of undulating hills,

      Old woodlands silent with romance.

      Intenser stars, a lazier moon,

      The moonlit torrent on the peak,

      And at one's side a maiden meek

      And lovely as the balmy June.

      The toll-gate stood beside the road,

      The highway from the city's smoke;

      Its long, well white-washed spear-point broke

      The clean sky o'er the pike and showed

      The draught-horse where his rest should be.

      The locusts tall with shade on shade

      The trough of water cool beneath,

      From heat and toil a Sabbath made.

      Beyond were pastures where the kine

      Would browse, and where a young bull roared;

      And here would pass a peeping hoard

      Of duck and brood in waddling line.

      A week flew by on wings of ease.

      I walked along a rutty lane;

      I stopped to list some picker's strain

      Sung in a patch of raspberries.

      Upon the fence's lanky rails

      I leaned to stare into great eyes

      Glooming beneath a bonnet white

      Bowed 'neath a chin of dimpled prize.

      Phœbe, the toll-man's daughter she;

      I knew her by a slow, calm smile,

      Whose source seemed distant many a mile,

      Brimming her eyes' profundity.

      Elastic as a filly's