Across Seas, 3

Sweeter than half-heard music is to one
Who waits, upon a summer's night, and sees
The warm, white moonlight slanting through the trees,
And smiles to think the glad time is begun
Sadder than, after summer-time is done,
The autumn twilight, when the fitful breeze
Sighs for the year's lost prime and sunny ease, —
So is to me the web thy soul has spun

Of dream-flowers plucked from pale, dim fields of sleep,
Warm with no sun, wet with no rain of ours.
Surely the web was woven well of these,
And, in the streams we know not, did God steep
The opening blossoms, and the full-grown flowers, —
Hopes born of griefs, and joys of memories.