Poetry Archives

Weave cunningly the web
  Of twilight, O thou subtle-fingered Eve!
And at the slow day’s ebb
  With small blue stars the purple curtain weave.
If any wind there be,
Bid it but breathe lightly as woodland violets o’er the sea;
If any moon, be it no more than a white fluttering feather.
Call the last birds together.

O Eve, and let no wisp
  Of day’s distraction thine enchantment mar;
Thy soft spell lisp
  And lure the sweetness down of each blue star.
Then let that low moan be
A while more easeful, trembling remote and strange, far oversea;
So shall the easeless heart of love rest then, or only sigh,
Hearing the swallows cry!