FOUR-O’CLOCKS
It is mid-afternoon. Long, long ago Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn It blew so gayly on the hills of morn, And fainted in the noontide’s fervid glow.
Gone are the dew-drops from the rose’s heart— Gone with the freshness of the early hours, The songs that filled the air with silver showers, The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.
Yet still in tender light the garden lies; The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low; Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro; The peace of heaven is in the o’erarching skies.
And here be four-o’clocks, just opening wide Their many colored petals to the sun, As glad to live as if the evening dun Were far away, and morning had not died!