Days and Dreams: Poems

Herein the dearness of her is: The thirty perfect days of June Made one, in beauty and in bliss Were not more white to have to kiss, To love not more in tune.
And oft I think she is too true, Too innocent for our day; For in her eyes her soul looks new— Two crowfoot-blossoms watchet-blue Are not more soft than they.
So good, so kind is she to me, In darling ways and happy words, Sometimes my heart fears she may be Too much with God and secretly Sweet sister to the birds.
The owls are quavering, two, now three, And all the green is graying; The owls our trysting dials be— There is no time for staying.
I wait you where this buckeye throws Its tumbled shadow over Wood-violet and the bramble-rose, Long lady-fern and clover.
Spice-seeded sassafras weighs deep Rough rail and broken paling, Where all day long the lizards sleep Like lichen on the railing.
Behind you you will feel the moon's Gold stealing like young laughter; And mists—gray ghosts of picaroons— Its phantom treasure after.
And here together, youth and youth, Love will be doubly able; Each be to each as true as truth, And dear as fairy fable.
The owls are calling and the maize With fallen dew is dripping— Ah, girlhood, through the dewy haze Come like a moonbeam slipping.