With the night-airs that steal from the murmuring sea, Bringing sweet peace to my baby and me.
DUSK.
Down by the shore at even, when the waves Lap lightly on the reedy rims, and soft, One trembling star, a blossom, flames aloft, Where the sunk sun the western heaven laves With lowest tides of day; the tired world craves For the great night, that cometh brooding in, With draught of healing over earth’s far din, And blessed rest that recreates and saves.
Far in the breathing woods the whip-poor-will Reiterates his plaintive note; and hark! A dusky night-hawk whirrs athwart the dark, Haunting the shadows, till in silvern swoon, Hunted by her own spirit, strange and still, Over the waters comes the wan, white moon.
OUT OF POMPEII.
She lay, face downward, on her bended arm, In this her new, sweet dream of human bliss, Her heart within her fearful, fluttering, warm, Her lips yet pained with love’s first timorous kiss. She did not note the darkening afternoon, She did not mark the lowering of the sky O’er that great city. Earth had given its boon Unto her lips, love touched her and passed by.