A Gray Day.

I. Long vollies of wind and of rain     And the rain on the drizzled pane,     And the eve falls chill and murk; But on yesterday's eve I know How a horned moon's thorn-like bow Stabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow,     Like a rich barbaric dirk. II. Now thick throats of the snapdragons, - Who hold in their hues cool dawns,     Which a healthy yellow paints, - Are filled with a sweet rain fine Of a jaunty, jubilant shine, A faery vat of rare wine,     Which the honey thinly taints. III. Now dabble the poppies shrink, And the coxcomb and the pink;     While the candytuft's damp crown Droops dribbled, low bowed i' the wet; And long spikes o' the mignonette Little musk-sacks open set,     Which the dripping o' dew drags down. IV. Stretched taunt on the blades of grass, Like a gossamer-fibered glass,     Which the garden-spider spun, The web, where the round rain clings In its middle sagging, swings; - A hammock for Elfin things     When the stars succeed the sun. V. And mark, where the pale gourd grows Up high as the clambering rose,     How that tiger-moth is pressed To the wide leaf's underside. - And I know where the red wasps hide, And the wild bees, - who defied     The first strong gusts, - distressed. VI. Yet I feel that the gray will blow Aside for an afterglow;     And a breeze on a sudden toss Drenched boughs to a pattering show'r Athwart the red dusk in a glow'r, Big drops heard hard on each flow'r     On the grass and the flowering moss. VII. And then for a minute, may be, - A pearl - hollow worn - of the sea, -     A glimmer of moon will smile; Cool stars rinsed clean on the dusk, A freshness of gathering musk O'er the showery lawns, as brusk     As spice from an Indian isle.