AT THE TRYST.
The evening stars are shining
Amid the gloom of air,
Like gold and jewels twining
Among thy golden hair.
They guard the dawn’s shut portal
And count the moments fleet,—
O maiden, we are mortal,
Why hasten not thy feet?
The moonlight and the shadows
Are wooing by the stream,
And far across the meadows
Thy windows brightly gleam.
My eager heart is beating
Beneath the trysting tree,
The evening hours are fleeting,
Why com’st thou not to me?
SONNETS IN CALIFORNIA.
ON A FLASK OF WATER.
Taken from the Pacific at Santa Monica, Cal.
From seas Alaskan, where, through sunless days,
The grinding ice floes cast a spectral glare,
I come to shores where, through the golden air,
Palms wave and bees dip in the orange sprays.
From shores Siberian, where the keen knout preys
On women, wan with torture and despair,
I come, a voiceless, palpitating prayer,
Where Freedom dwells, yet succor still delays.