EVEN-TIME
IN meadows deep with hay, I see
The reapers' steel flash sparklingly;
And bobolinks at play;—
And in the iris-bordered coves
Frail lilies, shaded by the groves,
Moor all the golden day.
I watch the flicker rise on sun-lit wings
High where a pewee sings,—
Apollo's messenger
To the lone piper of the fir.
Where rolling western hills look like
Waves of aërial seas, the sunsets strike;
And wrecking, dye the clouds with gold.
Moon-wheeled, Eve's chariot is rolled
On through the high star-spangled doors,
To Night's dark murmurous shores.