TWILIGHT IN THE GARDEN

THE scent of the earth is moist and good In the dewy shade

Of the tall, dark poplars whose slender tops Against the sunset bloom are laid,

And a robin is whistling in the copse

By the dim spruce wood.

The west wind blowing o’er branch and flower Out of the wold,

Steals through the honeysuckle bower

And bears away on its airy wings

Odors that breath of paradise;

Dim are the poppies’ splendid dyes,

But many a pallid primrose swings

Its lamp of gold.

A white moth flits from tree to tree

Like a wandering soul;

Deep in the lily a muffled boom

Tells of a honey-drunken bee

Wildered with sweets in that ivory bowl; Many a subtle melody,

Many a rare sound all unknown

To the lusty daylight’s fuller tone

Threads with its magic this hush and gloom.

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