THE FIELDS OF DARK.

THE wreathing vine within the porch
     Is in the heart of me,
The roses that the noondays scorch
     Burn on in memory;
Alone at night I quench the light,

     And without star or spark
The grass and trees press to my knees,
     And flowers throng the dark.

The leaves that loose their hold at noon
     Drop on my face like rain,

And in the watches of the moon
     I feel them fall again.
By day I stray how far away
     To stream and wood and steep,
But on my track they all come back

     To haunt the vale of sleep. [Page 126]

The fields of light are clover-brimmed,
     Or grassed or daisy-starred;
The fields of dark are softly dimmed,
     And safely twilight-barred;

But in the gloom that fills my room
     I cannot fail to mark
The grass and trees about my knees,
     The flowers in the dark. [Page 127]