For in that time she was to me More real than our reality; More real than Earth, more real than I-- The unreal things that pass and die.
Low, swallow-swept and gray, Between the orchard and the spring, All its wide windows overflowing hay, And crannied doors a-swing, The old barn stands to-day.
Deep in its hay the Leghorn hides A round white nest; and, humming soft On roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides, Black in the sun-shot loft, The building hornet glides.
Along its corn-crib, cautiously As thieving fingers, skulks the rat; Or in warped stalls of fragrant timothy, Gnaws at some loosened slat, Or passes shadowy.
A dream of drouth made audible Before its door, hot, harsh, and shrill All day the locust sings.... What other spell Shall hold it, lazier still Than the long day’s, now tell:--
Dusk and the cricket and the strain Of tree-toad and of frog; and stars That burn above the rich west’s ribbéd stain; And dropping pasture bars, And cowbells up the lane.
Night and the moon and katydid, And leaf-lisp of the wind-touched boughs; And mazy shadows that the fireflies thrid; And sweet breath of the cows, And the lone owl here hid.
There is a woodland witch who lies With bloom-bright limbs and beam-bright eyes, Among the water-flags that rank The slow brook’s heron-haunted bank. The dragonflies, in brass and blue, Are signs she works her sorcery through; Weird, wizard characters she weaves Her spells with under forest leaves,-- These wait her word, like imps, upon The gray flag-pods; their wings, of lawn And gauze; their bodies, gleaming green. While o’er the wet sand,--left between The running water and the still,-- In pansy hues and daffodil, The fancies that she doth devise Assume the forms of butterflies, Rich-colored.--And ’tis she you hear, Whose sleepy rune, hummed in the ear Of silence, bees and beetles purr, And the dry-droning locusts whirr; Till, where the wood is very lone, Vague monotone meets monotone, And Slumber is begot and born, A faery child beneath the thorn. There is no mortal who may scorn The witchery she spreads around Her dim demesne, wherein is bound The beauty of abandoned time, As some sweet thought ’twixt rhyme and rhyme. And through her spells you shall behold The blue turn gray, the gray turn gold Of hollow heaven; and the brown Of twilight vistas twinkled down With fireflies; and in the gloom Feel the cool vowels of perfume Slow-syllabled of weed and bloom. But, in the night, at languid rest,-- When like a spirit’s naked breast The moon slips from a silver mist,-- With star-bound brow, and star-wreathed wrist, If you should see her rise and wave You welcome--ah! what thing could save You then? forevermore her slave!