THOUGH the tropical day has vanished, The flash of her glowing eyes, In a twilight rich and tender Still lames on the western skies; Through the hushed air's humid languor The full moon shines remote, And the insects' myriad murmur, Has silenced the birdling's throat:
Do you see how the white, curled vapors Float up from the meadows sweet? Do you hear the viewless river Sing softly and incomplete? Do you feel a word unspoken In the droop of pendant leaves, Like the mystic thrill of sympathy Which a full-souled hand receives?
Do you catch from pulsing breezes A tremulous, faint perfume, Of the languid lilies sleeping On the throbbing heart of June? Does the odor link the present To some June of other years, When the snowy lilies sleeping, Knew no dream of care or tears?
Does a subtle, fragrant sadness Lapse around you,—not your own,— Circling waves from deeper ocean, Where some pain has dropped a stone? All things melt this summer evening, Rock is fluent; ice is wine; Mighty nerve-lines, telegraphic, Pour your heart-beat into mine;
Deep to deep in passion calleth, Shallows can no answer give,— Tossed by waves and tempest-driven, Nothing true in them may hive;— From your deeps to-night a calling Sweeps my heights in pleading tone; Calm to calm the cry returneth Height and depth are blent in one.
