Stoop low, dear Night, a little star-breeze wakes

By Anne Whitney

Stoop low, dear Night, a little star-breeze wakes
The solemn pines. -- Child-love doth come and pass,
And when 'tis gone, how beautiful it was
We know. Thou art like this dear Night, that shakes
Her long hair down, and sits star-throned in lakes
And loving seas, he said -- forgive the boy!
And you are gold-tressed Day, the sun-flower's joy,
Each each pursues -- but neither overtakes.
O dull astronomer, do not these two
Mingle at dawn and even with lovely grace,
Till one for joy dies in the long embrace?
Experimental science is sole true;
And like those twilights 'mid the arctic snows,
The dusk and fair blent sweet on cheeks and brows.