by Madison Cawein


Globed in Heav'n's tree of azure, golden mellow
  As some round apple hung
High in hesperian boughs, thou hangest yellow
  The branch-like mists among:
Within thy light a sunburnt youth, named Health,
  Rests 'mid the tasseled shocks, the tawny stubble;
And by his side, clad on with rustic wealth
  Of field and farm, beneath thy amber bubble,
A nut-brown maid, Content, sits smiling still:
  While through the quiet trees,
  The mossy rocks, the grassy hill,
Thy silvery spirit glides to yonder mill,
  Around whose wheel the breeze
And shimmering ripples of the water play,
As, by their mother, little children may.


Sweet spirit of the moon, who walkest,--lifting
  Exhaustless on thy arm,
A pearly vase of fire,--through the shifting
  Cloud-halls of calm and storm,
Pour down thy blossoms! let me hear them come,
  Pelting with noiseless light the twinkling thickets,
Making the darkness audible with the hum
  Of many insect creatures, grigs and crickets:
Until it seems the elves hold revelries
  By haunted stream and grove;
  Or, in the night's deep peace,
The young-old presence of Earth's full increase
  Seems telling thee her love,
Ere, lying down, she turns to rest, and smiles,
Hearing thy heart beat through the myriad miles.

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