Tintoret.
And then, it seemed, along a corridor,
A mile of oak, a stricken footstep came.
Hurrying, yet slow ... I thought long centuries
Passed ere she entered--she, I loved of yore,
For whom I died, who wildly wailed my name
And bent and kissed me on the mouth and eyes.

THE PASSING GLORY.

Slow sinks the sun,--a great carbuncle ball
Red in the cavern of a sombre cloud,--
And in her garden, where the dense weeds crowd.
Among her dying asters stands the Fall,
Like some lone woman in a ruined hall,
Dreaming of desolation and the shroud;
Or through decaying woodlands goes, down-bowed,
Hugging the tatters of her gipsy shawl.
The gaunt wind rises, like an angry hand,
And sweeps the sprawling spider from its web,
Smites frantic music in the twilight's ear;
And all around, like melancholy sand,
Rains dead leaves down--wild leaves, that mark the ebb,
In Earth's dark hour-glass, of another year.

SEPTEMBER.

The bubbled blue of morning-glory spires,
Balloon-blown foam of moonflowers, and sweet snows
Of clematis, through which September goes,
Song-hearted, rich in realized desires,
Are flanked by hotter hues: by tawny fires
Of acrid marigolds,--that light long rows
Of lamps,--and salvias, red as day's red close,--
That torches seem,--by which the Month attires
Barbaric beauty; like some Asian queen,
Towering imperial in her two-fold crown
Of harvest and of vintage; all her form
Majestic gold and purple: in her mien
The might of motherhood; her baby brown,
Abundance, high on one exultant arm.

HOODOO.

She mutters and stoops by the lone bayou--
The little green leaves are hushed on the trees--
An owl in an oak cries "Who-oh-who,"
And a fox barks back where the moon slants through
The moss that sways to a sudden breeze ...
Or _That_ she sees.
Whose eyes are coals in the light o' the moon--
"_Soon, oh, soon_," hear her croon,
"_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"

She mutters and kneels and her bosom is bare--
The little green leaves are stirred on the trees--
A black bat brushes her unkempt hair,
And the hiss of a snake glides 'round her there ...
Or is it the voice of the ghostly breeze,
Or _That_ she sees,
Whose mouth is flame in the light o' the moon?--
"_Soon, oh, soon_," hear her croon,