Sings by the vine-entangled gate;

The slim moon slants a timid edge

Of pearl through one low cloud of slate;

Around dark door and window-ledge

Like dreams the shadows wait.

And through the summer dusk she goes,

On her white breast a crimson rose.

1

 She delays, meditating. A rainy afternoon.

Gray skies and the foggy rain

Dripping from sullen eaves;

Over and over again

Dull drop of the trickling leaves;

And the woodward-winding lane,

And the hill with its shocks of sheaves

One scarce perceives.

Shall I go in such wet weather

By the lane or over the hill?—

Where the blossoming milkweed's feather

The drops like diamonds fill;

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