The old gate clicks, and down the walk,
Between clove-pink and hollyhock,
Still young of face though gray of lock,
Among her garden’s flowers she goes,
At evening’s close,
Deep in her hair a yellow rose.
The old house shows one gable-peak
Above its trees; and sage and leek
Blend with the flowers’ their scent: the creek,
Leaf-hidden, past the garden flows,
That on it snows
Pale petals of the yellow rose.
The crickets pipe in dewy damps;
And everywhere the fireflies’ lamps
Flame like the lights of fairy camps;
While, overhead, the soft sky shows
One star that glows,
As, in gray locks, a yellow rose.
There is one spot she seeks for where
The roses make a fragrant lair,
A spot where once he kissed her hair,
And told his love, as each one knows,
Each flower that blows,
And pledged it with a yellow rose.
The years have turned her dark hair gray
Since that far time: and still, they say,
She keeps the tryst as on that day;
And through the garden softly goes,
At evening’s close,
Wearing for him that yellow rose.
WHIPPOORWILL TIME
I
Let down the bars; drive in the cows:
The west is barred with burning rose.
Unhitch the horses from the ploughs,
And from the cart the ox that lows,
And light the lamp within the house:—
The whippoorwill is calling,
“Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will,”
Where the locust blooms are falling
On the hill;
The sunset’s rose is dying,
And the whippoorwill is crying,
“Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will;”
Soft, now shrill,
The whippoorwill is crying,
“Whip-poor-will.”
II
Unloose the watch-dog from his chain:
The first stars wink their drowsy eyes: