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.

[9] 

[9] 

The Old Water-Mill 

The Old 

Water-Mill

Wild ridge on ridge the wooded hills arise,

Between whose breezy vistas gulfs of skies

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