Long Hosts Of Sunlight, And The Bright Wind Blows A Tourney-Trumpet On The Listed Hill; Past Is The Splendour Of The Royal Rose And Duchess Daffodil. Crowned Queen Of Beauty, In The Garden'S Space, Strong Daughter Of A Bitter Race And Bold, A Ragged Beggar With A Lovely Face, Reigns The Sad Marigold. And I Have Sought June'S Butterfly For Days, To Find It Like A Coreopsis Bloom Amber And Seal, Rain-Murdered 'Neath The Blaze Of This Sunflower'S Plume. Here Drones The Bee; And There Sky-Daring Wings Voyage Blue Gulfs Of Heaven; The Last Song The Red-Bird Flings Me As Adieu, Still Rings Upon Yon Pear-Tree'S Prong. No Angry Sunset Brims With Rubier Red The Bowl Of Heaven Than The Days, Indeed, Pour In Each Blossom Of This Salvia-Bed, Where Each Leaf Seems To Bleed. And Where The Wood-Gnats Dance, Like Some Slight Mist, Above The Efforts Of The Weedy Stream, The Girl, October, Tired Of The Tryst, Dreams A Diviner Dream. One Foot Just Dipping The Caressing Wave, One Knee At Languid Angle; Locks That Drown Hands Nut-Stained; Hazel-Eyed, She Lies, And Grave, Watching The Leaves Drift Down.