II.

The scummy pond sleeps lazily, Clad thick with lilies, and the bee Reels boisterous as a Bassarid Above the bloated green frog hid In lush wan calamus and grass, Beside the water's stagnant glass. The piebald dragon-fly, like one A-weary of the world and sun, Comes blindly blundering along, A pedagogue, gaunt, lean, and long, Large-headed naturalist with wise, Great, glaring goggles on his eyes. And dry and hot the fragrant mint Pours grateful odors without stint From cool, clay banks of cressy streams, Rare as the musks of rich hareems, And hot as some sultana's breath With turbulent passions or with death. A haze of floating saffron; sound Of shy, crisp creepings o'er the ground; The dip and stir of twig and leaf; Tempestuous gusts of spices brief From elder bosks and sassafras; Wind-cuffs that dodge the laughing grass; Sharp, sudden songs and whisperings That hint at untold hidden things, Pan and Sylvanus that of old Kept sacred each wild wood and wold. A wily light beneath the trees Quivers and dusks with ev'ry breeze; Mayhap some Hamadryad who, Culling her morning meal of dew From frail accustomed cups of flowers-- Some Satyr watching through the bowers-- Had, when his goat hoof snapped and pressed A brittle branch, shrunk back distressed, Startled, her wild, tumultuous hair Bathing her limbs one instant there.

ANTICIPATION.

Windy the sky and mad; Surly the gray March day; Bleak the forests and sad, Sad for the beautiful May.

On maples tasseled with red No blithe bird swinging sung; The brook in its lonely bed Complained in an unknown tongue.

We walked in the wasted wood: Her face as the Spring's was fair, Her blood was the Spring's own blood, The Spring's her radiant hair,

And we found in the windy wild One cowering violet, Like a frail and tremulous child In the caked leaves bowed and wet.

And I sighed at the sight, with pain For the May's warm face in the wood, May's passions of sun and rain, May's raiment of bloom and of bud.

But she said when she saw me sad, "Tho' the world be gloomy as fate, And we yearn for the days to be glad, Dear heart, we can afford to wait.

"For, know, one beautiful thing On the dark day's bosom curled, Makes the wild day glad to sing, Content to smile at the world.

"For the sinless world is fair, And man's is the sin and gloom; And dead are the days that were, But what are the days to come?

"Be happy, dear heart, and wait! For the past is a memory: Tho' to-day seem somber as fate, Who knows what to-morrow will be?"

* * * * * * *

And the May came on in her charms, With a twinkle of rustling feet; Blooms stormed from her luminous arms, And honey of smiles that were sweet.

Now I think of her words that day, This day that I longed so to see, That finds her dead with the May, And the March but a memory.

A LAMENT.