. . .container"> I With molten ruby, clear as wine, The East's great cup of daybreak brims; The morning-glories swing and shine; The night-dews bead their satin rims; The bees are busy in flower and vine, And load with gold their limbs. Sweet Morn, the South A loyal lover, Kisses thy mouth, Thy rosy mouth, And over and over Wooes thee with scents of wild-honey and clover. II Beside the wall the roses blow That Noon's hot breezes scarcely shake; [56] Beside the wall the poppies glow, So full of fire their deep hearts ache; The drowsy butterflies fly slow, Half sleeping, half awake. Sweet Noontide, Rest,— A reaper sleeping,— His head on thy breast, Thy redolent breast, Dreams of the reaping, While sounds of the scythes all around him are sweeping. III Along lone paths the cricket cries, Where Night distils dim scent and dew; One mad st. . . Read More