White Clover by By Elaine Goodale Eastman

white clover


White Clover by
 By Elaine Goodale Eastman


The distant hills, 
the long day thro', 
Have fainted in a haze of blue, 
The sun has been a burning fire, 
The day has been a warm desire,—
But all desire is over;
The lights are fading from the west,
The night has brought a dreamy rest,
And deep in yonder wood is heard
The sudden singing of a bird,—
While here an evening wind has stirred
A slope set thick with clover.

The fields have lost their lingering light,
The path is dusky thro' the night,—
The clover is too sweet to lose
Her fragrance with the gathering dews,—
The skies are warm above her ;
The cricket pipes his song again,
The cows arc waiting in the lane.
The shadows fall adown the hill.
And silent is the whippoorwill;
But thro' the summer twilight still
You smell the milk-white clover.
 
The glory of the day has ceased,
The moon has risen in the east,
The distant hills, the meadow near,
Are bathed in moonlight soft and clear.
That veils the landscape over;
And born of rare and strange perfume,
Pure as the clover's odorous bloom,
Bear hopes, that are but half-confessed,
Dim thoughts and longings fill the breast,
Till lost again in deeper rest
Among the blossomed clover.