For shame the sun will never show himself, Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so; My dripping locks,--they would become an elf, Who in a beaded coat does gayly go. MIST Low-anchored cloud, Newfoundland air, Fountain-head and source of rivers, Dew-cloth, dream-drapery, And napkin spread by fays; Drifting meadow of the air, Where bloom the daisied banks and violets, And in whose fenny labyrinth The bittern booms and heron wades; Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,-- Bear only perfumes and the scent Of healing herbs to just men’s fields. SMOKE[8] Light-Winged Smoke, Icarian bird, Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight; Lark without song, and messenger of dawn, Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts; By night star-veiling, and by day Darkening the light and blotting out the sun; Go thou, my incense, upward from this hearth, And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame. HAZE Woof of the sun,[9] ethereal gauze, Woven of Nature’s richest stuffs, Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea, Last conquest of the eye; Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust, Aerial surf upon the shores of earth, Ethereal estuary, frith of light, Breakers of air, billows of heat, Fine summer spray on inland seas; Bird of the sun, transparent-winged, Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned, From heath or stubble rising without song,-- Establish thy serenity o’er the fields. THE MOON ‘Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide; Mortality below her orb is placed.’--RALEIGH. The full-orbed moon with unchanged ray Mounts up the eastern sky, Not doomed to these short nights for aye, But shining steadily. She does not wane, but my fortùne, Which her rays do not bless; My wayward path declineth soon, But she shines not the less. And if she faintly glimmers here And palèd is her light, Yet always in her proper sphere She’s mistress of the night. THE VIREO Upon the lofty elm-tree sprays The vireo rings the changes sweet, During the trivial summer days, Striving to lift our thoughts above the street. THE POET’S DELAY In vain I see the morning rise, In vain observe the western blaze, Who idly look to other skies, Expecting life by other ways. Amidst such boundless wealth without, I only still am poor within, The birds have sung their summer out, But still my spring does not begin. Shall I then wait the autumn wind, Compelled to seek a milder day, And leave no curious nest behind, No woods still echoing to my lay? LINES