Evening on the Banks of the Mooshaussuck

by Sarah Helen Whitman

Again September's golden day,
  Serenely still, intensely bright,
Fades on the umbered hills away,
  And melts into the coming night.
Again Mooshaussuck's silver tide
Reflects teach green herb on its side,
Each tasselled wreath and tangling vine,
Whose tendrils o'er its margin twine.

And standing on its velvet shore,
  Where yesternight, with thee, I stood,
I trace its devious course once more,
  Far winding on, through vale and wood;
Now glimmering through yon golden mist,
By the last, glinting sunbeams kissed,
Now lost, where lengthening shadows fall
From hazel copse and moss-fringed wall.

Near where yon rocks the stream injurn,
  The lonely gentian blossoms still;
Still wave the star-flower and the fern
  O'er the soft outline of the hill;
While, far aloft, where pine trees throw
Their shade athwart the sunset glow,
Thing vapors cloud the illumined air
And parting daylight lingers there.

But ah, no longer thou art near,
  This varied loveliness to see;
And I, though fondly lingering here,
  To-night, can only think on thee;
The flowers thy gentle hand carressed,
Still lie unwithered on my breast;
And still thy footsteps print the shore,
Where thou and I may rove no more.

Again I hear the murmuring fall
  Of water from some distant dell,
The beetle's hum, the cricket's call,
  And, far away, that evening bell;
Again, again, those sounds I hear;
But oh, how desolate and drear
They seem to-night; how like a knell
The music of that evening bell.

Again the new moon in the west,
  Scarce seen upon yon golden sky,
Hangs o'er the mountain's purple crest
  With one, pale planet trembling nigh;
And beautiful her pearly light
As when we blessed its beams last night;
But thou art on the far blue sea,
And I can only think on thee.