Enchantment lies as of mysterious flutes;

As if the music of a god's good-will

Had taken on material attributes

In blooms, like chords; and in the water-gleam,

That runs its silvery scales from stream to stream;

In sunbeam bars, up which the butterfly,

A golden note, vibrates then flutters on—

Inaudible tunes, blown on the pipes of Pan,

That have assumed a visible entity,

And drugged the air with beauty so, a Faun,

Behold, I seem, and am no more a man.

The Rain-Crow

The 

Rain-Crow

I

Can freckled August,—drowsing warm and blonde

Beside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead,

In her hot hair the oxeyed daisies wound,—

O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed

To thee? when no plumed weed, no feather'd seed

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