I. Long Vollies Of Wind And Of Rain And The Rain On The Drizzled Pane, And The Eve Falls Chill And Murk; But On Yesterday'S Eve I Know How A Horned Moon'S Thorn-Like Bow Stabbed Rosy Thro' Gold And Thro' Glow, Like A Rich Barbaric Dirk. Ii. Now Thick Throats Of The Snapdragons, - Who Hold In Their Hues Cool Dawns, Which A Healthy Yellow Paints, - Are Filled With A Sweet Rain Fine Of A Jaunty, Jubilant Shine, A Faery Vat Of Rare Wine, Which The Honey Thinly Taints. Iii. Now Dabble The Poppies Shrink, And The Coxcomb And The Pink; While The Candytuft'S Damp Crown Droops Dribbled, Low Bowed I' The Wet; And Long Spikes O' The Mignonette Little Musk-Sacks Open Set, Which The Dripping O' Dew Drags Down. Iv. Stretched Taunt On The Blades Of Grass, Like A Gossamer-Fibered Glass, Which The Garden-Spider Spun, The Web, Where The Round Rain Clings In Its Middle Sagging, Swings; - A Hammock For Elfin Things When The Stars Succeed The Sun. V. And Mark, Where The Pale Gourd Grows Up High As The Clambering Rose, How That Tiger-Moth Is Pressed To The Wide Leaf'S Underside. - And I Know Where The Red Wasps Hide, And The Wild Bees, - Who Defied The First Strong Gusts, - Distressed. Vi. Yet I Feel That The Gray Will Blow Aside For An Afterglow; And A Breeze On A Sudden Toss Drenched Boughs To A Pattering Show'R Athwart The Red Dusk In A Glow'R, Big Drops Heard Hard On Each Flow'R On The Grass And The Flowering Moss. Vii. And Then For A Minute, May Be, - A Pearl - Hollow Worn - Of The Sea, - A Glimmer Of Moon Will Smile; Cool Stars Rinsed Clean On The Dusk, A Freshness Of Gathering Musk O'Er The Showery Lawns, As Brusk As Spice From An Indian Isle.