In June

Deep in the West a berry-coloured bar
  Of sunset gleams; against which one tall fir
  Is outlined dark; above which--courier
  Of dew and dreams--burns dusk's appointed star.
  And flash on flash, as when the elves wage war
  In Goblinland, the fireflies bombard
  The stillness; and, like spirits, o'er the sward
  The glimmering winds bring fragrance from afar.
  And now withdrawn into the hill-wood belts
  A whippoorwill; while, with attendant states
  Of purple and silver, slow the great moon melts
  Into the night--to show me where _she_ waits,--
  Like some slim moonbeam,--by the old beech-tree,
  Who keeps her lips, fresh as a flower, for me.