A Lament.

I.     White moons may come, white moons may go,     She sleeps where wild wood blossoms blow,     Nor knows she of the rosy June,     Star-silver flowers o'er her strewn,     The pearly paleness of the moon, -         Alas! how should she know!              II.     The downy moth at evening comes     To suck thin honey from wet blooms;     Long, lazy clouds that swimming high     Brood white about the western sky,     Grow red as molten iron and lie         Above the fragrant glooms.              III.     Rare odors of the weed and fern,     Dry whisp'rings of dim leaves that turn,     A sound of hidden waters lone     Frothed bubbling down the streaming stone,     And now a wood-dove's plaintive moan         Drift from the bushy burne.              IV.     Her garden where deep lilacs blew,     Where on old walls old roses grew     Head-heavy with their mellow musk,     Where, when the beetle's drone was husk,     She lingered in the dying dusk,         No more shall know that knew.              V.     When orchards, courting the wan Spring,     Starred robes of buds around them fling,     Their beauty now to her is naught,     Once a sweet passion, when she fraught     Dark curls with blooms that nodding caught         Impulse from the bee's wing.              VI.     White moons may come, white moons may go,     She sleeps where wildwood blossoms blow;     Cares naught for fairy fern or weed,     White wand'rings of the plumy seed,     Of hart or hind she takes no heed;         Alas! her head lies low!