THOUGH the tropical day has vanished,The flash of her glowing eyes,In a twilight rich and tenderStill lames on the western skies;Through the hushed air's humid languorThe full moon shines remote,And the insects' myriad murmur,Has silenced the birdling's throat:
Do you see how the white, curled vaporsFloat up from the meadows sweet?Do you hear the viewless riverSing softly and incomplete?Do you feel a word unspokenIn the droop of pendant leaves,Like the mystic thrill of sympathyWhich a full-souled hand receives?
Do you catch from pulsing breezesA tremulous, faint perfume,Of the languid lilies sleepingOn the throbbing heart of June?Does the odor link the presentTo some June of other years,When the snowy lilies sleeping,Knew no dream of care or tears?
Does a subtle, fragrant sadnessLapse around you,—not your own,—Circling waves from deeper ocean,Where some pain has dropped a stone?All things melt this summer evening,Rock is fluent; ice is wine;Mighty nerve-lines, telegraphic,Pour your heart-beat into mine;
Deep to deep in passion calleth,Shallows can no answer give,—Tossed by waves and tempest-driven,Nothing true in them may hive;—From your deeps to-night a callingSweeps my heights in pleading tone;Calm to calm the cry returnethHeight and depth are blent in one.
