Cloud-feathers, oozing orange light, Make rich the Indian locks of night; Her dusky waist with sultry gold Girdled and buckled fold on fold. One star. A sound of bleating flocks. Great shadows stretched along the rocks, Like giant curses overthrown By some Arthurian champion. Soft-swimming sorceries of mist That streak blue glens with amethyst. And, tinkling in the clover dells, The twilight sound of cattle-bells. And where the marsh in reed and grass Burns, angry as a shattered glass, The flies make golden blurs, that shine Like drops of amber-scattered wine Spun high by reeling Bacchanals, When Bacchus wreathes his curling hair With vine-leaves, and from every lair His worshippers around him calls. They come, they come, a happy throng, The berriers with gibe and song; Their pails brimmed black to tin-bright eaves With luscious fruit, kept cool with leaves Of aromatic sassafras; 'Twixt which some sparkling berry slips, Like laughter, from the purple mass, Wine-swollen as Silenus' lips.
The tanned and tired noon climbs high Up burning reaches of the sky; Below the drowsy belts of pines The rock-ledged river foams and shines; And over rainless hill and dell Is blown the harvest's sultry smell: While, in the fields, one sees and hears The brawny-throated harvesters,-- Their red brows beaded with the heat,-- By twos and threes among the wheat Flash their hot scythes; behind them press The binders--men and maids that sing Like some mad troop of piping Pan;-- While all the hillsides swoon and ring Such sounds of Ariel airiness As haunted freckled Caliban. 'O ho! O ho! 'tis noon I say. The roses blow. Away, away, above the hay, To the tune o' the bees the roses sway; The love-songs that they hum all day, So low! So low! The roses' Minnesingers they.'
Up velvet lawns of lilac skies The tawny moon begins to rise Behind low, blue-black hills of trees,-- As rises up, in Siren seas, To rock in purple deeps, hip-hid, A virgin-bosomed Oceanid.-- Gaunt shadows crouch by tree and scaur, Like shaggy Satyrs waiting for The moonbeam Nymphs, the Dryads white, That take with loveliness the night, And glorify it with their love. The sweet, far notes I hear, I hear, Beyond dim pines and mellow ways, The song of some fair harvester, The lovely Limnad of the grove, Whose singing charms me while it slays. 'O deep! O deep! the earth and air Are sunk in sleep. Adieu to care! Now everywhere Is rest; and by the old oak there The maiden with the nut-brown hair Doth keep, doth keep Tryst with her lover the young and fair.'