By the Trysting-Beech

Deep in the west a berry-colored bar
Of sunset gleams; against which one tall fir
Stands outlined dark; above which--courier
Of dew and dreams--burns dusk’s appointed star.
And flash on flash, as when the elves wage war
In Goblinland, the fireflies bombard
The silence; and, like spirits, o’er the sward
The twilight winds bring fragrance from afar.
And now, withdrawn into the hill-wood belts,
A whippoorwill; while, with attendant states
Of pearl and silver, slow the great moon melts
Into the night--to show me where she waits,--
Like some slim moonbeam,--by the old beech-tree,
Who keeps her lips, fresh as a flower, for me.