ling like a dove?

So, then, you cannot wed me now
That roses and the June are here,
That warmth and fragrance weigh each bough?
And yet your reason is not clear.
Ah, well! We'll swear anew each vow,
And wait another year.

PART II

EARLY SUMMER

_The cricket in the rose-bush hedge
Sings by the vine-entangled gate;
The slim moon slants a timid edge
Of pearl through one low cloud of slate;
Around dark door and window-ledge
Like dreams the shadows wait.
And through the summer dusk she goes,
On her white breast a crimson rose._

1

_She delays, meditating. A rainy afternoon._

Gray skies and the foggy rain
Dripping from sullen eaves;
Over and over again
Dull drop of the trickling leaves;
And the woodward-winding lane,
And the hill with its shocks of sheaves
One scarce perceives.

Shall I go in such wet weather
By the lane or over the hill?--
Where the blossoming milkweed's feather
The drops like diamonds fill;
Where, draggled and drenched together,
The ox-eyes rank the rill,
To the old corn-mill.

The creek by now is swollen,
And its foaming cascades sound;
And the lilies, smeared with pollen,
In the dam look dull and drowned.
'Tis a path I oft have stolen
To the bridge that rambles round
With willows bound.

Through a valley wild with berry,
Packed thick with the iron-weeds,
And elder,--washed and very
Fragrant,--the fenced path leads;
Past oak and wilding cherry
To a place of flags and reeds,
That the water bredes.

The sun through the sad sky bleaches--
Is that a thrush that calls?
That bird who so beseeches?
And see! on the balsam's balls,
And leaves of the water-beeches--
One blister of wart-like galls--
No raindrop falls.

My shawl instead of a bonnet!...
Though the woods be soaking yet,
Through the wet to the rock I'll run it,--
How sweet to meet i' the wet!
Our rock with the vine upon it,--
Each flower a fiery jet--
Where oft we've met!

2

_They meet. He speaks._

How fresh the purple clover
Smells in its veil of rain!
And where the leaves brim over
How fragrant is the lane!
See, how the sodden acres,
Forlorn of all their rakers,
Their hay and harvest makers,
Look green as spring again.

Drops from the trumpet flowers
Rain o