The Two Twilights. Henry A. Beers

      The muses ring my bell and run away.

      I spy you, rogues, behind the evergreen:

      You, wild Thalia, romper in the hay;

      And you, Terpsichore, you long-legged quean.

      When I was young you used to come and stay,

      But, now that I grow older, 'tis well seen

      What tricks ye put upon me. Well-a-day!

      How many a summer evening have ye been

      Sitting about my door-step, fain to sing

      And tell old tales, while through the fragrant dark

      Burned the large planets, throbbed the brooding sound

      Of crickets and the tree-toads' ceaseless ring;

      And in the meads the fire-fly lit her spark

      Where from my threshold sank the vale profound.

      So late and long the shadows lie

      Under the quadrangle wall:

      From such a narrow strip of sky

      So scant an hour the sunbeams fall,

      They hardly come to touch at all

      This cool, sequestered corner where,

      Beside the chapel belfry tall,

      I cultivate my small parterre.

      Poor, sickly blooms of Academe,

      Recluses of the college close,

      Whose nun-like pallor would beseem

      The violet better than the rose:

      There's not a bud among you blows

      With scent or hue to lure the bee:

      Only the thorn that on you grows —

      Only the thorn grows hardily.

      Pale cloisterers, have you lost so soon

      The way to blush? Do you forget

      How once, beneath the enamored moon,

      You climbed against the parapet,

      To touch the breast of Juliet

      Warm with a kiss, wet with a tear,

      In gardens of the Capulet,

      Far south, my flowers, not here – not here?

      Whither do ye blow?

      For now the moon is low.

      Whence is it that ye come,

      And where is it ye go?

      All night the air was still,

      The crickets' song was shrill;

      But now there runs a hum

      And rustling through the trees.

      A breath of coolness wakes,

      As on Canadian lakes,

      And on Atlantic seas,

      And each high Alpine lawn

      Begin the winds of dawn.

      I would not be

      A voyager on the windy seas:

      More sweet to me

      This bank where crickets chirp, and bees

      Buzz drowsy sunshine minstrelsies.

      I would not bide

      On lonely heights where shepherds dwell.

      At twilight tide

      The sounds that from the valley swell,

      Soft breathing lute and herdsman's bell,

      Are sweeter far

      Than music of cold mountain rills.

      The evening star

      Wakes love and song below, but chills

      With mist and breeze the gloomy hills.

      I would not woo

      Some storm-browed Juno, queenly fair.

      Soft eyes of blue

      And sudden blushes unaware

      Do net my heart in silken snare.

      I do not love

      The eyrie, but low woodland nest

      Of cushat dove:

      Not wind, but calm; not toil, but rest

      And sleep in grassy meadow's breast.

      As I lay yonder in tall grass

      A drunken bumble-bee went past

      Delirious with honey toddy.

      The golden sash about his body

      Could scarce keep in his swollen belly

      Distent with honey-suckle jelly.

      Rose liquor and the sweet pea wine

      Had filled his soul with song divine;

      Deep had he drunk the warm night through:

      His hairy thighs were wet with dew.

      Full many an antic he had played

      While the world went round through sleep and shade.

      Oft had he lit with thirsty lip

      Some flower-cup's nectared sweets to sip,

      When on smooth petals he would slip

      Or over tangled stamens trip,

      And headlong in the pollen rolled,

      Crawl out quite dusted o'er with gold.

      Or else his heavy feet would stumble

      Against some bud and down he'd tumble

      Amongst the grass; there lie and grumble

      In low, soft bass – poor maudlin bumble!

      With tipsy hum on sleepy wing

      He buzzed a glee – a bacchic thing

      Which, wandering strangely in the moon,

      He learned from grigs that sing in June,

      Unknown to sober bees who dwell

      Through the dark hours in waxen cell.

      When south wind floated him away

      The music of the summer day

      Lost something: sure it was a pain

      To miss that dainty star-light strain.

      Mine eyes have seen when once at sunset hour

      White lily flocks that edged a lonely lake

      All rose and sank upon the lifting swell

      That swayed their long stems lazily, and lapped

      Their floating pads and stirred among the leaves.

      And