And now, no more a child, I long
For that sweet time again,
When on the far horizon bar
Rose up the shores of Spain.
O lovely land of silver mists,
O land of golden grain,
I look for you with smiles, with tears,
But look for you in vain!
Moth-Song.
What dost thou here,
Thou dusky courtier,
Within the pinky palace of the rose?
Here is no bed for thee,
No honeyed spicery,—
But for the golden bee,
And the gay wind, and me
Its sweetness grows.
Rover, thou dost forget;—
Seek thou the passion-flower
Bloom of one twilight hour.
Haste, thou art late!
Its hidden savours wait.
For thee is spread
Its soft, purple coverlet;
Moth, art thou sped?
—Dim as a ghost he flies
Through the night mysteries.
June.
ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON
Of silvery-shining rains
And noonday golds and shadows
June weaves wild-daisy chains
For happy meadows.
She stoops to set the stream
With scented alder-bushes,
And with the rainbow gleam
Of iris ’mid the rushes,
She scatters eglantine
And scarlet columbine.
Ah, June, my lovely lass,—
Sweetheart, dost thou not see
I stay to watch thee pass—
What hast thou brought to me?
Thy mystic ministries
Of glorious far skies,
Thy wild-rose sermons, Sweet,
Like dreams profound and fleet,
Thy woodland harmony
Thou givest me.