It is the time when crimson stars
Weary of heaven’s cold delight,
And take, like petals from a rose,
Their soft and hesitating flight
Upon the cool wings of the air
Across the purple night.
It is the time when silver sails
Go drifting down the violet sea,
And every poppy’s crimson mouth
Kisses to sleep a lovesick bee;
The fireweed waves her rosy plumes
On pasture, hill and lea.
It is the time to dream—and feel
The lanquid rocking of a boat,
The pushing ripple round the keel
Where cool, deep-hearted lilies float,
And hear thro’ wild syringas steal
Some songster’s drowsy note.
It is the time, at eve, to lie
And in a hammock faintly sway,
To watch the golds and crimsons die
Across the blue stretch of the bay;
To hear the sweet dusk tiptoe by
In the footsteps of the day.
Straight thro’ a fold of purple mist The sun goes down—a crimson wheel— And like an opal burns the sea That once was cold as steel. With pomp of purple, gold and red, Thou wilt come back at morrow’s dawn… But thou can’st never bring, O Sun, The Christmas that is gone!