Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/175

Rh II

'T is twelve o' the clock.

The town is still;

As still as a stock

From harbor to hill.

The moon's broad marge

Has no stars near,

Far off how clear

They shine, how large!

Something is strange

In the air, in the light;

Come forth! Let us range

In the black, in the white,

Through the day-like night.

III

In the elm-trees all

No flutter, no twitter;

From the granite wall

The small stars glitter.

A filmy thread

My forehead brushes;

A meteor rushes

From green to red.

Naught is but the bliss

Of this dark, of this white,

Of these stars—of this kiss,

O my Love and my Light

In the day and the night.

"I CARE NOT IF THE SKIES ARE WHITE"

not if the skies are white,

Nor if the fields are gold;