The gnats whirl in the air, The evening gnats; and there The owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sail For prey; the bat wakes; and the shell-less snail Comes forth, clammy and bare. Hark! that's the nightingale, Telling the self-same tale Her song told when this ancient earth was young: So echoes answered when her song was sung In the first wooded vale. We call it love and pain The passion of her strain; And yet we little understand or know: Why should it not be rather joy that so Throbs in each throbbing vein? In separate herds the deer Lie; here the bucks, and here The does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn: Through all the hours of night until the dawn They sleep, forgetting fear. The hare sleeps where it lies, With wary half-closed eyes; The cock has ceased to crow, the hen to cluck: Only the fox is out, some heedless duck Or chicken to surprise. Remote, each single star Comes out, till there they are All shining brightly: how the dews fall damp! While close at hand the glow-worm lights her lamp Or twinkles from afar. But evening now is done As much as if the sun Day-giving had arisen in the east: For night has come; and the great calm has ceased, The quiet sands have run. WIFE TO HUSBAND. Pardon the faults in me, For the love of years ago: Good by. I must drift across the sea, I must sink into the snow, I must die. You can bask in this sun, You can drink wine, and eat: Good by. I must gird myself and run, Though with unready feet: I must die. Blank sea to sail upon, Cold bed to sleep in: Good by. While you clasp, I must be gone For all your weeping: I must die. A kiss for one friend, And a word for two,-- Good by:-- A lock that you must send, A kindness you must do: I must die. Not a word for you, Not a lock or kiss, Good by. We, one, must part in two: Verily death is this: I must die. THREE SEASONS. "A cup for hope!" she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth's richer red. "A cup for love!" how low, How soft the words; and all the while Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow. "A cup for memory!" Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up and moan Across the barren sea. Hope, memory, love: Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening gray And solitary dove. MIRAGE. The hope I dreamed of was a dream, Was but a dream; and now I wake Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old, For a dream's sake.