gravelly shallow; Or when September turned the swamps to gold And purple. But the year is growing old: The golden-rod is rusted, and the red That streaked October's frosty cheek is dead; Only the sumach's garnet pompons make Procession through the melancholy brake. Lo! even now the autumnal wind blows cool Over the rippled waters of thy pool, And red autumnal sunset colors brood Where I alone and all too late intrude. 

 

 

   HIGH ISLAND 

 Pleasant it was at shut of day, When wind and wave had sunk away, To hear, as on the rocks we lay, The fog bell toll; And grimly through the gathering night The horn's dull blare from Faulkner's Light, Snuffed out by ghostly fingers white That round it stole. 

The fog bell toll;

That round it stole.

 Somewhere behind its curtain, soon The mist grew conscious of a moon: No more we heard the diving loon Scream from the spray; But seated round our drift-wood fire Watched the red sparks rise high and higher, Then, wandering into night, expire And pass away. 

Scream from the spray;

And pass away.

 Down the dark wood, the pines among, A lurid glare the firelight flung; So for a while we talked and sung, And then to sleep; And heard in dreams the light-house bell, As all night long in solemn swell The tidal waters rose and fell With soundings deep. 

And then to sleep;

With soundings deep.

 

 

   LOTUS EATING 

 Come up once more before mine eyes, Sweet halcyon days, warm summer sea, Faint orange of the morning skies And dark-lined shores upon the lee! Touched with the sunrise, sea and sky All still on Memory's canvas lie: The scattered isles with India ink Dot the wide back-ground's gold and pink: Unstirring in the Sunday calm, Their profile cedars, sharply drawn, Bold black against the flushing dawn, Take shape like clumps of tropic palm. Night shadows still the distance dim (Ultra-marine) where ocean's brim Upholdeth the horizon-rim. 

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