White fingers of the birches idly strum
The harp of summer, while the placid stream
With low contralto music weaves a dream
Love-cradled in my heart. The first stars come
Pale saffron, with a young white moon from some
Still port afloat upon a silver beam
Of mystic vapors of the sky to gleam
Softly upon the river's platinum
Bright ripples. As night's curtain gently closes
A killdeer chimes the hour--No artifice
Of man can thus enwrap me in a fleece
Of calm enhanced by lingering wild roses.
Oh, restless world, when will you fathom bliss,
Your great heart know a country twilight's peace?
