The trees that thro’ the tuneful morn had made

bride-dusk for beams that pierce the melting shade,

or thro’ the opulent afternoon had stood

lordly, absorb’d in hieratic mood, —

now stricken with misgiving of the night

rise black and ominous, as who invite

some fearful coming whose foreblown wind shall bow,

convuls’d and shuddering, each dishevell’d brow:

the garden that had sparkled thro’ its sheen

all day, a self-sufficing gem serene,

hiding in emerald depths the vision’d white

of limbs that follow their own clear delight,

exhales towards the inaccessible skies,

commencing, failing, broken, scents or sighs: