WILD PASTURES 



light in the ambrosial twilight of the 

 ripened summer. It is no air-borne de- 

 light like the resinous scent of the forest 

 pines or the pasture sweet-fern when 

 the hot sun of midday distills them and 

 the hot wind of midday sends them far 

 to you across the quivering fields. It is 

 something finer, softer, more silkily 

 subtle, which, like the rose gold of the 

 afterglow of the sunset, tints the dusk 

 of the cove between the air atoms, not 

 by way of them. 



Then, as the gold glimmers and fades 

 and the pink faints in the cooling purple 

 of the dusk, and the outline of the cove 

 shore slips from the front of your eye 

 to the chambers of memory behind it, so 

 that you else might see it best with the 

 eyes shut, the white candles are lighted 

 and the eager moth sees by them to sup 

 with you and me and the gods on this 



