Dream-Time

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.