Phantoms

This was her home; one mossy gable thrust Above the cedars and the locust trees: This was her home, whose beauty now is dust, A lonely memory for melodies The wild birds sing, the wild birds and the bees. Here every evening is a prayer: no boast Or ruin of sunset makes the wan world wroth; Here, through the twilight, like a pale flower's ghost, A drowsy flutter, flies the tiger-moth; And dusk spreads darkness like a dewy cloth. In vagabond velvet, on the placid day, A stain of crimson, lolls the butterfly; The south wind sows with ripple and with ray The pleasant waters; and the gentle sky Looks on the homestead like a quiet eye. Their melancholy quaver, lone and low, When day is done, the gray tree-toads repeat: The whippoorwills, far in the afterglow, Complain to silence: and the lightnings beat, In one still cloud, glimmers of golden heat. He comes not yet: not till the dusk is dead, And all the western glow is far withdrawn; Not till,-a sleepy mouth love's kiss makes red,- The baby bud opes in a rosy yawn, Breathing sweet guesses at the dreamed-of dawn. When in the shadows, like a rain of gold, The fireflies stream steadily; and bright Along the moss the glowworm, as of old, A crawling sparkle-like a crooked light In smoldering vellum-scrawls a square of night,- Then will he come; and she will lean to him,- She,-the sweet phantom,-memory of that place,- Between the starlight and his eyes; so dim With suave control and soul-compelling grace, He cannot help but speak her, face to face.