My darling, come!--The wings of the dark have wafted
the sunset away,
And there's room for much in a summer night, but no
room for delay.
A still moon looketh down from the sky, and a wavering
moon looks up
From every hollow in the green hills that holds a pool in
its cup.
The woodland borders are wreathed with bloom--elder,
viburnum, rose;
The young trees yearn on the breast of the wind that
sighs of love as it goes.
The small stars drown in the moon-washed blue but the
greater ones abide,
With Vega high in the midmost place, Altair not far aside.
The glades are dusk, and soft the grass, where the flower
of the elder gleams,
Mist-white, moth-like, a spirit awake in the dark of forest
dreams.
Arcturus beckons into the east, Antares toward the south,
That sendeth a zephyr sweet with thyme to seek for thy
sweeter mouth.
Shall the blossom wake, the star look down, all night and
have naught to see?
Shall the reeds that sing by the wind-brushed pool say
nothing of thee and me?
--My darling comes! My arms are content, my feet are
guiding her way;
There is room for much in a summer night, but no room
for delay!
_Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer_