The Delicate Evening

THE delicate evening, with its clear, blue mist,
Dies like a word of love on summer's lips,
Or like the wet, warm smile of widows, who
Dream in their flesh of olden bridal joys.
The city far away has hushed its noise;
In the grave garden where the silence blooms
The warm, nocturnal wind discreetly sprays
The fountain freshness o'er the gravelled ways,
O'er which like rustling foliage dresses trail;
The hum of wasps sounds low, and roses, shed
By thoughtful fingers, languorously spread
Their soul of honey stirring love; a pale,
Strange dawn roves round the confines of the sky,
And blends in mystic, immaterial charm
The fleeing radiance with the starry dark.

What share in all the suns to be have I,
In love, youth, genius, gold, and fiery strife!...
O let me fall into a long sleep now,
Sleep, with a woman's hands upon my brow:
And close the window opened there on life!