Or memories of the May.

Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair
Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare
As she dances gaily by--
Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest,
And she tenderly holds against her breast
A belated butterfly.

The crickets sing no more to the stars--
The spiders no more put up silver bars
To entangle silken wings;
But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn,
And here and there--both at night and at morn--
A lonely robin still sings.

A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent
With perfumed winds from the Orient
And they weave o'er her a spell,
For nun-like she goeth now, still and sweet--
And while mists like incense curl at her feet,
She lingers her beads to tell.




NOCTURNE

Infold us with thy peace, dear moon-lit night,
And let thy silver silence wrap us round