It was night, and it is morning,-- The summer sun is bland, The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, In to the summer land. The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking, In the sun so soft and bright, And toss and play with the dead man Drowned in the storm last night. VII. I remember the burning brushwood, Glimmering all day long Yellow and weak in the sunlight, Now leaped up red and strong, And fired the old dead chestnut, That all our years had stood, Gaunt and gray and ghostly, Apart from the sombre wood; And, flushed with sudden summer, The leafless boughs on high Blossomed in dreadful beauty Against the darkened sky. We children sat telling stories, And boasting what we should be, When we were men like our fathers, And watched the blazing tree, That showered its fiery blossoms, Like a rain of stars, we said, Of crimson and azure and purple. That night, when I lay in bed, I could not sleep for seeing, Whenever I closed my eyes, The tree in its dazzling splendor Against the darkened skies. I cannot sleep for seeing, With closed eyes to-night, The tree in its dazzling splendor Dropping its blossoms bright; And old, old dreams of childhood Come thronging my weary brain, Dear, foolish beliefs and longings: I doubt, are they real again? It is nothing, and nothing, and nothing, That I either think or see: The phantoms of dead illusions To-night are haunting me. IN AUGUST. All the long August afternoon, The little drowsy stream Whispers a melancholy tune, As if it dreamed of June And whispered in its dream. The thistles show beyond the brook Dust on their down and bloom, And out of many a weed-grown nook The aster-flowers look With eyes of tender gloom. The silent orchard aisles are sweet With smell of ripening fruit. Through the sere grass, in shy retreat, Flutter, at coming feet, The robins strange and mute. There is no wind to stir the leaves, The harsh leaves overhead; Only the querulous cricket grieves, And shrilling locust weaves A song of Summer dead. THE EMPTY HOUSE. The wet trees hang above the walks Purple with damps and earthish stains, And strewn by moody, absent rains With rose-leaves from the wild-grown stalks. Unmown, in heavy, tangled swaths, The ripe June-grass is wanton blown; Snails slime the untrodden threshold-stone; Along the sills hang drowsy moths. Down the blank visage of the wall, Where many a wavering trace appears, Like a forgotten trace of tears, From swollen eaves the slow drops crawl. Where everything was wide before, The curious wind, that comes and goes, Finds all the latticed windows close, Secret and close the bolted door.