Long hosts of sunlight, and the bright wind blows
A tourney-trumpet on the listed hill;
Past is the splendor of the royal rose
And duchess daffodil.
Crowned queen of beauty, in the garden’s space,
Strong daughter of a bitter race and bold,
A ragged beggar with a lovely face,
Reigns the sad marigold.
And I, who sought June’s butterfly for days,
Now find it—like a coreopsis bloom—
Amber and seal, rain-murdered ’neath the blaze
Of this sunflower’s plume.
Here drones the bee; and there, sky-voyaging wings
Dare the blue gulfs of heaven: the last song
The red-bird flings me as adieu, still rings
Upon that pear-tree’s prong.
No angry sunset brims with rubier red
The bowl of heaven than the days, indeed,
Pour in the blossoms of this salvia-bed
Where each leaf seems to bleed.
And where the wood-gnats dance, a little mist,
Above the efforts of the weedy stream,
The girl, October, tired of the tryst,
Dreams a diviner dream.
One foot just dipping the caressing wave,
One knee at languid angle; locks that drown
Hands nut-stained; hazel-eyed, she lies, and grave,
Watching the leaves drift down.