But on yesterday's eve I know
How a horned moon's thorn-like bow
Stabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow,
Like a rich barbaric dirk.
II.
Now thick throats of the snapdragons,—
Who hold in their hues cool dawns,
Which a healthy yellow paints,—
Are filled with a sweet rain fine
Of a jaunty, jubilant shine,