And I believe when none is by, Only the young moon in the sky-- The Greeks of old were right about you-- A naiad, like a marble flower, Lifts up her lovely shape from out you, Swaying like a silver shower.
So in old years dead and gone Brimmed the spring on Helicon, Just a little spring like you-- Ferns and moss and stars and dew-- Nigh the sacred Muses' dwelling, Dancing, dimpling, welling, welling.
Noon like a naked sword lies on the grass, Heavy with gold, and Time itself doth drowse; The little stream, too indolent to pass, Loiters below the cloudy willow boughs, That build amid the glare a shadowy house, And with a Paradisal freshness brims Amid cool-rooted reeds with glossy blade; The antic water-fly above it skims, And cows stand shadow-like in the green shade, Or knee-deep in the grassy glimmer wade.
The earth in golden slumber dreaming lies, Idly abloom, and nothing sings or moves, Nor bird, nor bee; and even the butterflies, Languid with noon, forget their painted loves, Nor hath the woodland any talk of doves. Only at times a little breeze will stir, And send a ripple o'er the sleeping stream, Or run its fingers through the willows' hair, And sway the rushes momently agleam-- Then all fall back again into a dream.
The beauty of this rainy day, All silver-green and dripping gray, Has stolen quite my heart away From all the tasks I meant to do, Made me forget the resolute blue And energetic gold of things . . . So soft a song the rain-bird sings.
Yet am I glad to miss awhile The sun's huge domineering smile, The busy spaces mile on mile, Shut in behind this shimmering screen Of falling pearls and phantom green; As in a cloister walled with rain, Safe from intrusions, voices vain, And hurry of invading feet, Inviolate in my retreat: Myself, my books, my pipe, my fire-- So runs my rainy-day desire.
Or I old letters may con o'er, And dream on faces seen no more, The buried treasure of the years, Too visionary now for tears; Open old cupboards and explore Sometimes, for an old sweetheart's sake, A delicate romantic ache, Sometimes a swifter pang of pain To read old tenderness again, As though the ink were scarce yet dry, And She still She and I still I. What if I were to write as though Her letter came an hour ago! An hour ago!--This post-mark says . . . But out upon these rainy days! Come tie the packet up again, The sun is back--enough of rain.