Her steps fall sweet as summer rain

Her steps fall sweet as summer rain,
And lull to dream the thoughts of pain,--
O glowing grass, O violet skyey,
Ye hint of something of fairer grain!

She outruns sympathy of crowds;
Her dwelling is above the clouds;
She stoops to kiss the rose to crimson--
Her face no featureless mask enshrouds.

Her chatelaine's of amber fine;
No hue of coming autumn's wine
But she outpours from tawny beaker,
And fills each grape of the swelling vine.