The ant is busy with its house,
The bee is at its tree;
And by its nest among the boughs
The bird makes melody.
The Day, reluctant still to leave,
Sits crystal at its noon,
Like some sweet girl, with naught to grieve,
Sighing a dreamy tune.
Oh, hark, my heart, and quit your quest!
The song she sighs is one of rest.
The butterfly is on its flower;
The wasp is at its clay;
The wind to bramble lane and bower
Whispers of yesterday.
The Afternoon goes to its close,
With bright attendant states,
Like some calm queen who seeks repose.
Behind her palace gates.
Oh, look, my heart, your pining cease!
That way, at last, you shall find peace.
The cricket trills; the beetle booms;
The mole heaves at its mound:
Pale moths come forth like ghosts of blooms;
The firefly goes its round.
The eve puts off her gown of gold,
And for a moment stands
Before her couch, a lamp of old,
The new moon, in her hands.
Oh, heart, go follow where it gleams,
And find again your world of dreams.
The life that wakes at dark comes out:
The spider nimbly weaves;
The bat flits silently about;
The drowsy owlet grieves.
The Night goes stealing to her tryst,
Breathing a fragrant sigh;
One jewel from her starry wrist
Drops down the quiet sky.
Heart, let it be a sign to you
Of love behind the bending blue.