By W.L. Shoemaker. For the Star.
The Odor of Wild-vine Bloom.
- Here, in this twilight wood-path, let me rest,
- On the soft grass in idleness recline,
- And breathe the rare breath of the gadding vine,
- Of sylvan odors sure the daintiest
- Ethereal spirit from unborn grapes expressed,
- Of a more sweet bouquet than any wine
- Whence weird intoxication fancies fine
- That with poetic charms the scene invest.
- With leaf-enwreathed, chaste Dryads I commune,
- (Unseen but with the keen eyes of the soul;)
- I hear sly Naiads tittering from the brook :
- My blithe musicians are the birds of June,
- Wood-thrush, and mocking-wren, and oriole;
- And flowers nod, knowing, wheresoe'er I look.
The Beauty of the Day.
- What myriad forms of beauty fill the day,
- When rules the rose-crowned June! Lo! earth and sky,
- And lucid waters with each other vie
- Which may their realms most charmingly array.
- Clouds, ever-changing, rise and roll away,
- Leaves, twinkling, dance, and flowers of every dye
- Deck the green grass, and bright-winged birds go by,
- And streams their pictures magical display.
- My heart a tender melancholy fills,
- As slow the varied panorama fades,
- And purple vapors veil the distant hills,
- To think that none day's lovely life can save.
- That by its length more near are death's dark shades
- To me more near the inevitable grave.