Wherever she fares her soft voice bears Fecundity; powers that thicken The fruits,--as the wind made Thessalian mares Of old mysteriously quicken:-- The apricots' honey, the milk of the pears, The wine, great grape-clusters hold, These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declares In the corn's long billows of gold, And flowers that jewel the wold. So, hail to her lips, and her sun-girt hips, And the glory she wears in her tresses! All hail to the balsam that dreams and drips From her breasts that the light caresses! Midsummer! whose fair arm lovingly slips Round the Earth's great waist of green, From whose mouth's aroma his hot mouth sips The life that is love unseen, And the beauty that God may mean. DIURNAL I With molten ruby, clear as wine, The East's great cup of daybreak brims; The morning-glories swing and shine; The night-dews bead their satin rims; The bees are busy in flower and vine, And load with gold their limbs. Sweet Morn, the South A loyal lover, Kisses thy mouth, Thy rosy mouth, And over and over Wooes thee with scents of wild-honey and clover. II Beside the wall the roses blow That Noon's hot breezes scarcely shake; Beside the wall the poppies glow, So full of fire their deep hearts ache; The drowsy butterflies fly slow, Half sleeping, half awake. Sweet Noontide, Rest,-- A reaper sleeping,-- His head on thy breast, Thy redolent breast, Dreams of the reaping, While sounds of the scythes all around him are sweeping. III Along lone paths the cricket cries, Where Night distils dim scent and dew; One mad star 'thwart the heaven flies, A glittering curve of molten blue; Now grows the big moon in the skies; The stars are faint and few. Sweet Night, the vows Of love long taken, Against thy brows Lay their pale brows, Till thy soul is shaken Of amorous dreams that make it awaken. THE FAMILY BURYING GROUND A wall of crumbling stones doth keep Watch o'er long barrows where they sleep, Old, chronicled grave-stones of its dead, On which oblivion's mosses creep And lichens gray as lead. Warm days, the lost cows, as they pass, Rest here and browse the juicy grass That springs about its sun-scorched stones; Afar one hears their bells' deep brass Waft melancholy tones. Here the wild morning-glory goes A-rambling, and the myrtle grows; Wild morning-glories, pale as pain, With holy urns, that hint at woes, The night hath filled with rain.